Irresistible Poison
by Rhysenn
Summary: **Chapter 9 is up!** Harry/Draco slash. Poison doesn't always bring death -- Draco learns that there are other ways to suffer and live.
1. Heaven's Wine

  
A/N: This contains a **slash** relationship, namely Harry/Draco. If it's not your material of choice, you know the drill.  
  
PG-13 will suffice, for language and general slashyness, but nothing explicit. The focus of this series is the events leading up to the relationship; quite a few fics tend to leave the backstory out, and I think how they got together is an essential part of a fic, considering that little issue about them starting out hating each other and all.  
  
  
~In this chapter: _'And I do drink to thee.'_ Draco finds that his choice of poison can't get any worse than it does. Enjoy the fic! :)   
  


* * *

  
  
Irresistible Poison  
  
Chapter 1: Heaven's Wine  
  
  
_Heaven's poisoned wine;  
Unnatural love, and more unnatural hate._  
  
  
Harry walked silently across the grounds of Hogwarts, heading toward the Owlery. He was alone, and kept casting wary glances over his shoulder, the soft rustling of grass under his feet amplified a dozen times in the echoing silence in his mind. The gnarled trees of the Forbidden Forest formed ominous black silhouettes against the backdrop of endless dark sky, and gave Harry a distinctive feeling of unease.  
  
Without his Invisibility Cloak, he felt exposed, vulnerable, as if every shadow was fleeing before him and leaving him conspicuous in the rays of moonlight. He'd lent it to Sirius, who was still in hiding and needed the protection of invisibility more than Harry did. Ever since he'd been without his Cloak Harry had cut back on his late night escapades, but tonight he hadn't been able to sleep a wink and decided to send off a letter to Sirius instead. Since Ron was already fast asleep, Harry had ventured out alone.  
  
The night air was fresh, smelling of dew and cut grass, tinged with a faintly spicy scent owing to the exotic night blossoms from the Forbidden Forest just a short distance away. Harry inhaled deeply, savouring the subtle aroma which succinctly bore the essence of the restless Forest, strangely refreshing and darkly enticing at the same time.  
  
Suddenly a flash of shimmering silver toward his right caught his eye, vanishing as swiftly as it had appeared. Harry glanced sharply it that direction as a soft rustle confirmed his suspicions. There was a dark movement in the bushes about a stone's throw away from him, and Harry's hand closed over his wand as he cautiously approached.  
  
As he stepped closer, the black clouds overhead slid apart, allowing a generous shaft of moonlight to shine forth, and Harry's jaw promptly dropped as his eyes settled on the sight before him.  
  
"Malfoy?!"   
  
The slender figure jerked around in response, and Harry caught the briefest glint of silver as familiar eyes turned to look at him, though they were hooded with an unusual expression of utter surprise. Harry's eyes widened as they flickered quickly down to Malfoy's body, and rendered him speechless for a moment as he gawked in undisguised astonishment.  
  
His voice was feeble with unfaded shock when the words finally found form on his lips,  
  
"Malfoy — what are you doing _naked?_"  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
He wanted to be invisible.  
  
Standing on the edge of night, the hedged boundary of the Forbidden Forest snaking into the shrouded darkness on either side of him, he felt as invisible as he could ever remember. The velvet sky above bore down upon him, feeble streaks of ivory moonlight cutting faintly across the endless black canvas of night.  
  
But of course, from another's viewpoint, such as one of the silent owls swooping overhead, he far from blended into the living night all around him. His light-blond hair shone a liquid silver in the moonlight, and his pale complexion was tinged with an unearthly sort of glow, as if radiating from within, silhouetted against the stark night. He stood out from his surroundings arrogantly and gracefully, not with the awkwardness of one ill-concealed, but with the unique air of one meant to be different.  
  
Draco's boots plodded softly on the damp mud, and the grass rustled in welcome as he neared the Forest, radiant and seething with life in the still night. In his right hand he tightly clasped a small vial of colourless fluid, clear as crystal yet shimmering opaque under the moonlight. Draco's slender fingers gripped the little container hard, and he carefully watched the precious liquid as he stealthily approached the Forest.  
  
He'd been working on this potion in absolute secrecy for the past few weeks, painstakingly gathering all the needed ingredients — pinching them from Snape's private store cupboard, buying them off a shady character lurking in a Hogsmeade alleyway. He never knew a potion could be so hard to concoct — _why_ certain ingredients were added he didn't understand, but the instructions were clear enough and he just followed them as such. On more than a few occasions he'd asked himself if it was worth all the trouble and risk, but in each instance his answer had been yes.  
  
He had few aspirations in life, and apart from those that were impelled on him, one that sprung of his own origin was the desire to be invisible. He could truthfully say that it wasn't with voyeuristic intention — he'd wanted this ever since he was a kid, and the longing for this particular ability had grown steadily stronger as he eased out of childhood, sordid purposes notwithstanding.   
  
All he wanted was to be able to disappear for a while, to hide away and be by himself. He wanted to be able to take a step back and observe other people without them noticing him, to slip away without anyone knowing where he was going. Of course, being invisible opened a world of other possibilities — pranks to pull, mischief to perpetrate — but those weren't his primary reasons for wanting invisibility so badly.  
  
He'd found this spellbook in his father's vast library over the summer — it was ancient and ragged, so old that the page numbers were in Roman numerals. It was almost falling apart, held together by a brittle thread crisp with age that had promptly frayed when he tried to open the book, causing the sheets of yellowed parchment to flutter to the floor. He'd hastily gathered the loose paper and hurried them back to his room for perusal. The pages were torn and stained and generally worse for wear, and not all of them were clearly numbered as the edges of the paper had deteriorated over the years, but he'd managed to sift through the book and to his utmost delight, found a faded, half-shredded page detailing a Loss Of Substance potion — bingo.  
  
The spell turned out to be extremely tricky — but it was supposed to be a powerful Dark Arts spell, and if it'd been simple as a wave of the wand, Draco would've doubted the authenticity of that claim. With focused determination, he'd managed to gather all the necessary elements needed in the final stage of the potion, except for one.  
  
A wild black rose. That had proved to be the most difficult to obtain; he'd scoured the floral shops in all of Hogsmeade, looking for a wild rose that had been black from the earliest bud and not dyed or magically cultured. He even owled Calyx & Corolla (the most established owl-order florist enterprise around) for it, but they were more expensive than even he could afford, since the roses were only in season in Scotland at this time of year. He'd finally been told that his best bet would be to look in the Forbidden Forest, where all variety of growths (as well as other more savage flora and fauna) bloomed verdantly, particularly when darkness fell.  
  
And so here he was, at slightly past midnight, approaching the Forest with no small measure of caution, praying inwardly that he'd be able to find a black rose near the fringes of the woods without having to venture further within (ever since his first year, he'd held an deeply entrenched fear of the Forest at night).   
  
As fortune would have it, he was in luck; his heart leapt as his sharp eyes fell upon a dark blossom nestled in the shadows of a Snapping Bush. Careful not to jostle the volatile bush, Draco dropped to his knees and squinted down at the petaled outline of the rose, the colour of which was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding night.  
  
His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the flower, feeling the sharp thorns scraping his skin as he gingerly dislodged it from the ground, and it came free with surprising ease. Shaking the loose soil off the stem, Draco held it up at eye level for a better look — the velvet petals of pure black caught the milky moonlight, reflecting nothing.   
  
Draco smiled in satisfaction. The most beautiful rose, painted in the colour of night.  
  
He allowed himself a moment to admire the perfect bloom held in his hand, before he got to work. He only needed the petals, and he carefully removed them from the stalk, the texture like black satin against his fingertips, and dropped them, one by one, into the vial of potion he'd prepared with the other ingredients. The clear liquid promptly turned crimson with the fallen petals — not a trace of black from the rose, but a fresh, vibrant red, vivid and hot-blooded. It was ready — and it had to be consumed immediately. There was no turning back, not now.   
  
Taking a deep breath, Draco closed his eyes and tossed back the entire portion in a silent gulp.  
  
It burned. It burned like a molten fire beneath his skin, flaying his nerves with an uncommon sensation that made him gasp. His blood felt like slivers of ice under his warm skin, waves of heat upon veins of cold. He tentatively opened his eyes, then quickly shut them again as vertigo kicked in, blurring his vision. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and his entire body flushed with a sudden heat, like hot breath shivering down his spine, obliterating the initial chill like rising mercury in his blood.  
  
The heat was suffocating; Draco vaguely wondered if that was a sign of the spell working, and he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, yanking his collar apart and breathing slightly easier as the cold night air rushed against his bare, glistening skin, soothing the heat that raged from within.   
  
In a flourish his fingers pried the rest of the buttons open, and his white shirt fell to the ground, translucent in the half-darkness. He squinted, holding his hands out before him, trying to make out whether he had become insubstantial yet, but a persistent whirring inside his head kept his focus at bay. A stinging heat still itched over the parts of his body still clothed, and he was about to undress himself from waist down when a loud rustle of dried twigs crunching underfoot made him freeze in mid-movement.  
  
There was someone coming.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Draco spun around, coming face to face with Harry, who had a stunned expression in his dark green eyes. Harry's mouth was slack, and he stared at Draco in disbelief.  
  
"Malfoy — what are you doing _naked?_"  
  
A fleeting look of alarmed surprise flitted across Draco's features, partially obscured in the darkness, and a brief silence laced with tension lapsed before Draco finally spoke.  
  
"You— you can see me?" Draco couldn't keep the bewilderment from his voice, almost matching the dumbstruck expression on Harry's face.  
  
Harry now looked disgusted. "Of course I can see you. What I can't see are your clothes where they should be, and that's the problem. What the hell are you _doing?_"  
  
Malfoy stared down at himself, a mixed look of dismay and incomprehension, then up at Harry again.   
  
"You can actually _see_ me?" Draco repeated, nonplussed and rarely, looking rather flustered. He instinctively reached down to pick up his shirt, lying on the damp grass.  
  
"You're standing naked in the wide open, it's kind of hard to miss!" Harry sounded annoyed, and resolutely turned his face away from Malfoy. "Get something on, will you?"  
  
"I'm not naked," Draco snapped back, with as much dignity as one hastily dressing could possibly muster. "I'm half-clothed from waist down, if you didn't notice."  
  
"No, I _didn't_ notice, and thank goodness for that." Harry paused, and sneaked a glare at Draco, who was busy doing up the buttons of his shirt, mismatching them, and didn't notice him. "What the _hell _are you doing, Malfoy, prancing around the Forest topless in the middle of the night? Some tribal dance to the moon god? Have you gone insane?" Harry shook his head in mock bafflement. "I always had my suspicions about you, Malfoy, but I never thought you'd be so stark raving mad to run around Hogwarts in the buff."  
  
"Yes, because I might just about run into Filch, won't I, and this is really sort of his thing," Draco shot back sarcastically, challenging Harry's glare as he adjusted his collar, lopsided because of the mismatched buttons down his front. "I appreciate your concern, Potter, but you can do me a big favour right now by just getting lost."  
  
"I can report you," Harry pointed out calmly.   
  
"Yes, and you can also explain what _you_ were doing walking around the Forest at this time of night," Draco snapped impatiently. He was anxious to get rid of Harry as soon as he could, since he had no idea how soon after being imbibed did the Loss Of Substance potion take effect, and he'd have a lot more explaining to do if Potter saw him disappear into thin air before his eyes.  
  
Harry's expression didn't alter one bit. "What are you doing, Malfoy?" he asked again, his tone even, his jaw set. He seemed to be a lot more composed now that Draco was fully clothed, and it was apparent that he wasn't going anywhere without the answer he demanded.  
  
"It's none of your damn business, Potter," Draco spat, his tone menacing yet imperceptibly desperate. "_Go away._" A pause, then added for intimidating effect, "Or I'll hex you, and don't think I won't dare to."  
  
"And don't think I won't retaliate." A note of anger found its way into Harry's voice, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to focus on Draco in the half-darkness, which was hard since the moon overhead had slid behind a black cloud and the meagre light lingered like mist between them.   
  
Harry took a step forward, his fingers tightening around his wand.  
  
Draco tensed, every muscle in his body poised for action, his nerves ostensibly proliferated by the potion filtering through his blood. It was a strangely exciting feeling; he'd partly expected the sensation to be ethereal, dreamlike, like floating on a cloud as his physical form evaporated. But the feeling that charged his body now was completely different, yet entirely new — it felt _denser_, as if he was more fully immersed in his present body than ever before. His senses were heightened, now sharp as the point of a blade, and the low murmur of the restive night throbbed like a deafening pulse in time with his own heartbeat.  
  
It felt... strange. And _wrong. _  
  
Draco took a step backwards, the sense of uneasiness rising inexorably within him, a wild sort of anxiety and fear overwhelming him, much like the panicked sort of realisation when you were on a flying carpet halfway to Arabia and suddenly remembered you left the shower on back home. And now uppermost in Draco's mind was getting rid of Harry before anything else happened.  
  
"Potter, I swear, if you don't..." Draco started, his voice hard with anger, just when the clouds above suddenly shifted, revealing the moon once again, and pearly-white rays flowed through the dark night sky, falling obliquely across Harry's face and illuminating his features with an unnatural pale light, and Draco abruptly stopped dead in his tracks.  
  
The blinding flash of lightning scorched through his mind without warning; it wasn't accompanied by pain but closely chased by another unnamed sensation that bled through his entire being, intense and undiluted, twisted discomfort and ecstasy at the same time. His vision blurred momentarily, then came into sharp focus — the background of dark trees dissolved into view, slanted by the stinging glow of incandescent moonlight, and...  
  
...and Harry.  
  
Harry stood before him, looking increasingly nervous at Draco's strange behaviour, and all Draco could do was stare at him, helpless as the aching sensation rushed through his veins and engulfed him. It left his mind shaken but disturbingly clear as it flooded his body, as every fibre yielded to this terrifying new sensation which possessed him whole.   
  
The horror sparkled in Draco's shocked grey eyes still unswervingly fixated on Harry, with the moonlight flowing down on his shoulders like liquid pearl.  
  
"Malfoy?" Harry began uncertainly, and raised his right hand to brush his dark fringe out his eyes, but to Draco it was as if Harry had reached out his fist and snatched _into_ his chest, dragging him closer, and he staggered forward out of his own volition, completely unprovoked.  
  
Before Draco knew what was happening, he had breached the distance that lay between them in quick, silent strides. His hands moved up to hold Harry's startled face, and in the space of a next heartbeat he was kissing Harry, hard and full on the lips, his manner deeply passionate, hopelessly desperate.   
  
Harry barely had time to react, and his muffled protest was drowned by Draco's lips closing over his mouth, and the sheer shock paralysed him for a few moments, rendering him incapable of movement. Draco's lips burned feverishly against his, kissing him with all the fervour of someone drunk on a dangerous addiction, and it took several instants to melt by before the thought fragment _Malfoy is kissing you!_ pried its way through the confused astonishment and catalysed Harry to action.  
  
Harry shoved Draco away from him, violently, and stumbled backwards, gasping softly, covering his mouth with his hands as the sweetly stinging sensation still lingered on his lips.  
  
"Malfoy!" Harry sputtered, utterly stunned, breathless from the forcefulness of Draco's kiss. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" Harry seldom swore unless absolutely necessary, and this situation without a doubt qualified.   
  
When he lifted his eyes to meet Draco's, he found that the horror in them far surpassed his own.   
  
The look of pure dismay and revulsion on Draco's face arrested any further words from Harry. Draco looked positively wretched, and the choked expression spoke more eloquently than he could ever articulate. He stared at Harry, disgust mingling with complete disbelief.  
  
"What— what just happened?" His voice quavered, and faltered a notch.  
  
"You tell me," Harry responded furiously, the initial shock fading and giving way to outrage. "What in living hell are you trying to do, Malfoy!?"  
  
"Did I— did I just kiss you?" The same traumatized voice.  
  
"Yes you bloody well did." Harry's breathing was still quick and shallow as he tried to regain composure, and he braced himself against the trunk of a nearby tree, feeling none too steady. "What was that about?!"  
  
Draco didn't seem to hear Harry's question. "That is disgusting."   
  
Draco's voice was still toneless, almost hollow. He closed his eyes, feeling strangely detached despite the frenetic rise of horror within him. He knew what just happened, and he didn't want to think about it, didn't even want to _remember_ it.  
  
Rage flushed Harry's cheeks. "Disgusting? You grab me and force yourself on me, and you say it's disgusting?" Harry appeared to want nothing more than to reach over and choke the life out of Draco, but given what happened the last time they had bodily contact just moments before, he seemed to think better of it. He angrily wiped the back of his hand over his mouth "You're _revolting_, Malfoy."  
  
Draco was about to shoot back a long rant coloured with expletives when Harry's words stabbed through him, evoking an unfamiliar aching twinge inside him, much like the sensation that had thrilled through him before what he didn't want to remember happened.   
  
_What is going on? What's happening to me?_  
  
Those questions demanded answers, but they would have to wait till later. For the present he had to contend with a very livid Harry who looked as if he was ready to beat the crap out of him any moment now, and considering his current dazed state Draco wasn't too sure he was in for a fight like that.  
  
He raised his eyes to Harry's; and it happened again, like an electric jolt through his body, only more intense and penetrating, lancing through flesh and marrow right into his soul. Draco started, and a soft involuntary gasp escaped his lips; he remembered the same burning feeling, and it threatened to...  
  
He could feel himself falling into those cold emerald eyes, the colour of jade flashing through his mind, the colour of desire and passion and hate and want and horror all twisted into one cord that bound itself around his heart, drawing him closer to Harry, or Harry closer to him, he didn't know which...  
  
_Get out of here. Now._  
  
With a muffled exclamation that sounded a lot like "Oh god", Draco frantically wrenched his gaze from Harry's, feeling the dull pain rip through him as he did so, and before he forgot what he had to do, Draco whirled around and tore away in the opposite direction. He didn't bother to disguise the sound of his running footsteps, and he raced across the grounds without a backward glance, as fast as his legs could carry him.  
  
Harry stood uncomprehending, staring amazedly after Draco as the other boy abruptly turned on his heel and fled. _Bizarre_, he thought, confounded, absently dropping to his knees on the soft grass and picking up an object that glinted in the moonlight. It was a clear glass vial, completely empty except for traces of vivid red, which looked to Harry suspiciously like blood, although he didn't think it was.  
  
The tingling sensation still touched his lips, the remnant heat of Draco's kiss, and Harry shook his head, completely baffled. Of all the people he'd expected to kiss in his life, Draco Malfoy was one of the last.   
  
Harry frowned. _Oh, how absolutely sickening. Malfoy, of all people._  
  
He decided to head back to Gryffindor Tower, having had enough unpleasant surprises for the night, before another strange occurrence which might not leave him quite so unscathed stormed into his path. _But for all I know, if I go insane or develop some chronic illness in a few years time,_ Harry thought grimly, _it might be traceable to this. _  
  
Slipping the glass vial into his pocket, the letter to Sirius completely forgotten, Harry slowly walked back to Gryffindor Tower, where he quietly crept up into the dorm and went to his bed. But it was only long after he lay down did sleep finally come upon him.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
_Oh god. What just happened? Oh god.  
_  
The words ran through his mind like a feverish mantra, and Draco closed his eyes as he stumbled into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, not quite caring if he woke anyone. The oddest part was that his mind was clear and unhazed through it all, so he couldn't blame it on a foggy head, although his body was in anguish — a strange, unreal sort of agony, like the memory of a terrifying nightmare haunting waking hours.   
  
He brushed his teeth five times running, to clear his mouth of the taste of Harry, until his gums were sore and started to bleed. The metallic taste of blood on his tongue awakened his senses, drawing out the sense of panic once again.  
  
_What just happened?_  
  
He knew bloody well what just happened. He just kissed Harry Potter, that's what happened. The thought of it made him nauseated, even though at the very same time an entrenched part of him yearned for the perverse, forbidden pleasure of it all over again.  
  
_What went wrong? Why didn't the potion work like it was supposed to?_  
  
With his tongue raw and tingling from the minty aftertaste of toothpaste, Draco made his way back to his dorm, retrieved the tattered book of spells and brought it down with him to the Slytherin common room. It was dark and cold, much like the way he was feeling right now, and Draco pointed his wand at the bare fireplace. It burst forth with a crackle of orange flames, and the warmth diffused through him like a calming wave, although it didn't dispel the persistent pang that still troubled him; the ache of emptiness.  
  
Settling down on the floor, leaning against one side of the sofa, Draco opened the book, absently fingering the stubby knot where he had re-tied the binding thread. He flipped open to the page that detailed the Loss Of Substance potion, and found himself staring at the list of familiar ingredients. He carefully ran a finger down the list, mentally checking off each element he had used, going through the procedure again in his mind, exactly as the book had instructed. The potion had been perfectly concocted.  
  
His sharp eyes followed his forefinger to the end of the page, and picked up a sentence he had not noticed before, which he was _sure_ hadn't been there the last time he looked, but was now written in faded, dark blue ink.   
  
Draco leaned forward earnestly, squinting; the writing was slightly smudged and rather cursive, but the Latin phrase it spelled out could be read clearly enough:  
  
  
_Traicit et fati litora magnus amor._  
  
  
Draco stared at it, and blinked. Disbelieving, he snatched up the book and checked the pages frantically; but due to extensive handling, the page numbers were by now blurred beyond recognition. His entire body went rigid with cold fear as a sense of deep, horrendous dread filled him, and comprehension of the phrase filtered into his conscious mind, which translated:  
  
  
_A great love can cross the bounds of fate.  
_  
  
He looked down at the book, the his fingers trembling. One page said 'Loss Of Substance potion' together with a brief description; flipping over, the subsequent few pages detailed the procedure. But something was definitely, undeniably wrong.   
  
The Latin quote. The strange sensation wrecking havoc in his body. That— that _feeling._  
  
Then all of a sudden he knew, and frantic realisation splintered like glass shards through his mind: _No. No, it can't be._   
  
It wasn't a Loss Of Substance potion — he must have somehow mixed up the pages when he reattached the book — instead, he'd concocted a... a...  
  
And at this moment, even swear words failed him, as the full impact of what he'd just inflicted upon himself rushed through him, howling like the icy desert wind...  
  
"What have I done?" Draco asked in a horrified whisper; and he was too afraid of the answer.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
Not exactly a bed of black roses for Draco now, is it? What's he going to do about it? The prospect of _'Til death do us part'_ doesn't exactly sound too optimistic at the moment, either. More in Chapter 2!   
  
Do review and let me know what you think. Good feedback accelerates rate of writing exponentially :)   
  
---  
  



	2. Splintered

  
A/N: Heartfelt gratitude to everyone who reviewed, for the wonderful response to Chapter 1. Proper thanks at the end of this chapter!   
  
Managed to get this out before Valentine's Day! — this fic seems rather apt, in an ironic sense. The many complications of that thing called lurve... who needs Cupid when we've got potions? *g*  
  
  
~In this chapter: Our boys get to talking, and 'the morning after' syndrome kicks in. Will Draco tell Harry the truth, or suffer in silence? Will Harry persist in trying to get to the bottom of matters, or brush the whole thing aside? Read on! :)    
  


* * *

  
  
Irresistible Poison  
  
Chapter 2: Splintered  
  
  
_Love is a many splintered thing._  
  
  
Harry woke up late the next morning, and was sufficiently distracted about last night's events while he rushed down for breakfast and raced off to class. Only when he stepped into the dungeons for double Potions with the Slytherins did the memory of last night come flooding back, as he saw Malfoy quietly enter and make his way to the other side of the classroom.  
  
Harry's eyes narrowed as he watched Malfoy, but the blond head didn't once turn in his direction. It was as if nothing had happened, although Harry intuitively sensed that something had altered between them: a lack of the usual overt hostility, the absence of the familiar sneer that had become such a constant feature in Potions.  
  
Something was definitely different.   
  
As the end of the lesson approached, Ron nudged Harry when Snape's back was turned. "The entire lesson has almost gone by and Malfoy hasn't once tried to sabotage our potions or make a cauldron explode." Ron shot a sharp, suspicious glance across the classroom at Malfoy. "What's wrong with him?"  
  
Harry was on the verge of telling Ron what happened the night before, but suspected that his friend might throw an apoplectic fit right then and there, so he decided against it. Maybe later.  
  
Harry shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, and replied truthfully, "I don't know what's wrong with him."   
  
"Well, we'd better not speak too soon," Ron said darkly. "The lesson's not over yet."  
  
The shrill ringing of the bell a few minutes later concluded one of the strangest, most uneventful Potions class Harry could remember. His thoughts strayed to the memory of Malfoy kissing him last night, but he quickly caught himself. That was something he could do with not remembering for a _long_ time. Preferably until after he was dead.   
  
But why didn't he seem to be able to forget?  
  
Across the classroom, Draco tidied away his books and cleaned up his cauldron, keeping his eyes averted all the time, feeling the weight of Harry's questioning gaze on him. He knew the Gryffindor had been sneaking furtive glances at him throughout the whole of Potions, but he hadn't dared to look up, cowardly as that seemed, simply because he wasn't sure what he might do if he had.  
  
Draco found himself more attuned to Harry's emotions; he wondered if it was because of the potion, or that he just hadn't noticed before how outwardly Harry showed his feelings. Draco could feel the unresolved tension strung between them, the mild bewilderment in Harry's gaze each time it swept past him, bringing with it a strange fleeting warmth which stroked through his body.   
  
And when Harry left the dungeons, accompanied by Weasley and Granger, Draco experienced that same feeling again; a muted longing, growing stronger and stronger as the other boy's footsteps faded away, tugging relentlessly at his heartstrings...   
  
Draco slammed his fist into the table in frustration, knocking over a bottle of armadillo bile. He didn't care; he buried his face in the palms of his hands, which were now shaking, glazed with a sheen of cold sweat. It was still there, that— that _feeling._   
  
He tried to rid himself of it. Last night, the moment he'd discovered what potion he'd actually drunk, he'd spent almost an hour retching, forcing himself to throw up as much of the potion as possible.  
  
But it was still there. In his blood, running like silver ice through his veins.  
  
Angrily snatching his bag, Draco headed out of the classroom, ignoring Crabbe and Goyle's shouts to wait up for them.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Draco finally managed to corner Harry later that day, when the other boy headed out alone for Quidditch practice in the evening. Draco accosted Harry as he rounded the bend, walking toward the shed where all the brooms were kept.  
  
Harry's initial surprise quickly faded to a look of grim recognition. "What do you want, Malfoy?"  
  
Draco ignored the sudden rush of blood to his brain, and fixed his glare on Harry. "I need to talk to you." He glanced anxiously over his shoulder as distant voices floated around the corner, and added, "In private."  
  
"What, so you can do unspeakably gross things to me again?" Harry asked coldly, stepping backwards and eyeing Draco suspiciously.  
  
Draco clenched his fists, and a faint embarrassment coloured his cheeks. "I enjoyed it about as much as you did, Potter," he said through clenched teeth, anger fraying the edges of his voice.  
  
"Really? I couldn't tell." Harry's voice was cool, even.   
  
"Shut up, Potter," Draco snapped, and bit his lip hard, trying to focus his thoughts around the heated throbbing in his head, like the sound of crashing waves. "It was a bloody mistake." He meant every nuance of his words. _A terrible, terrible mistake._  
  
Harry gave him a sideways look. "And you're coming to apologise?"  
  
"No." Draco answered automatically, and saw the expression in Harry's eyes harden.   
  
"Well, you bloody _should_ apologise." Harry drew himself up; he was about the same height as Draco, but his rising annoyance stiffened his body and made him look taller. "You had no right to do what you did, and—"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," Draco cut in acidly, feeling his own rage simmering within him, "I should've asked your permission first. Complete oversight on my part. I'll bear that in mind next time around."  
  
Harry's nostrils flared. "There will _be_ no next time!" He looked incredulously at Draco. "What is _wrong_ with you, Malfoy? Last time I checked, you hate me and I hate you, and I'm perfectly happy that it stays that way!"  
  
They both stood glowering at each other for a long moment, neither of them saying anything, Harry tapping his foot impatiently on the ground. Finally,  
  
"Well?"   
  
Draco glared back. "Well, what?"  
  
"Well, what was last night all about? Were you trying to scare me off? Because I distinctly remember you were the one who turned and fled with your tail between your legs."  
  
Draco closed his eyes. He could have done without the mental image of anything between anyone's legs at this moment. The infuriating buzz in his head showed no sign of abating; instead it was getting more intense, as if sealing off the vicinity just surrounding the two of them with a charged electrical sphere that was severely upsetting his nerve impulses and sending the weirdest feelings twisting through his body.  
  
Draco drew a deep breath. "It's a long story."  
  
"No it isn't. You grabbed hold of me and kissed me. End of story, and not quite a fairytale ending, I might add."  
  
Draco opened his eyes, immediately confronted with the deep emeralds shielded behind a pair of glasses, which made his breath catch in his throat, rendering him momentarily speechless.  
  
What did he come here for, anyway? To confess the whole situation and make a complete fool of himself? He wouldn't understand, anyway. What did he expect Potter to do, when the truth was, there was nothing he _could_ do, not him or anybody else? Why did he search him out, then, why did he spend most of the day just finding a time for them to be together in private?  
  
He didn't know why. Actually, he _did_ know, and he also knew that he had to get away from him as soon as possible.  
  
"Oh, forget it." Draco muttered; helpless frustration shimmered in his grey eyes as he turned away, but suddenly a firm hand on his arm stopped him, not because of its restraining force but because of the sharp jolt of sensation that shot through his arm.  
  
Draco reflexively flinched away from Harry's touch, stung, a fleeting wild look in his eyes of slate grey.  
  
Harry's eyes flickered in brief surprise before a look of determination settled on his features. He stepped around Draco, blocking his path, cornering him against the side of the broom shed.  
  
"You're not going anywhere until I get a straight answer from you, Malfoy." Harry's voice was soft, yet sliced with a veiled threatening tone.  
  
Draco lifted a challenging gaze, masking his inner turmoil almost flawlessly. "Or else?" he taunted, arching an eyebrow.  
  
"Do you really want an answer to that?"   
  
"Yes, because it doesn't sound vaguely threatening in the least."  
  
"Or else I'll go straight to Dumbledore with _this_—" Harry reached into his pocket, his hand coming up with the empty glass phial, "and you've have a nice audience for your explanation of what you were doing out last night."  
  
Draco pressed his lips into a thin line, his eyes narrowing. "You wouldn't, because that'll mean that you'll have to explain what _you_ were doing there as well." He smiled mirthlessly, allowing a healthy amount of sarcasm to drip from his words, "And I don't suppose our Golden Boy wants to have his record tarnished by something like that, now would he?"  
  
"The worst I'll get is detention and a reprimand for sneaking out at night." Harry's eyes sparkled with a determined fixation, and it reminded Draco of the way Harry looked when he was racing after the Snitch; resolute, unwavering, almost ruthless. His smugness faltered slightly.  
  
Harry cut Draco a sharp look, as if noticing his thoughts, then continued, "But you. You'll be lucky to get away with a detention if _this_ gets out." Again, Harry held up the glass phial, the traces of red still vivid, like streaks of blood against golden sunlight. "I don't know what it is — looks like blood, but it isn't because it would've dried to black by now. I'm sure Snape'll have an interesting time doing some experiments to find out what it is, although his enthusiasm will probably be slightly subdued since the results would serve to incriminate his favourite student."  
  
And from the look of genuine fear that flitted across Draco's face, a rare surge of emotion that flared and died within the flutter of a heartbeat, Harry knew that he'd got him.  
  
Draco recovered from the flinch of tension very quickly, his usual iciness freezing back into place. He raised his chin defiantly, and sneered at Harry. "Go on then, Potter. Show it to Dumbledore. It might be strawberry jam, for all you know. I'll enjoy seeing you make a fool of yourself."  
  
"I'll take that chance." Harry returned Draco's gaze evenly. "If I go down, I'll make sure you hit rock-bottom with me." He faced Draco squarely, watching the play of confusion simmering beneath the surface of Draco's face, ripples in the veneer of forced calm. "Your call, Malfoy."  
  
"Just walk away, Potter," Draco hissed, and a genuine urgency found form in his voice. "You don't want to know, trust me."  
  
"The hell I don't." Harry took a step closer, fire blazing in pure jade, and Draco closed his eyes almost in pain. "Try me, why don't you?"  
  
"Fuck off, Potter—" Draco spat, and he saw Harry tensing, "I can handle this on my own."  
  
"Handling it very well, I see, running around in the middle of the night half-naked kissing people like a deranged lunatic. Don't get me wrong, Malfoy, if you want to be a raving psycho it's fine with me, just don't get me involved."  
  
"Then _don't get involved._" Draco enunciated each word clearly, his eyes burning with an uncommon flame. "Turn a hundred and eighty degrees, start walking, and don't stop until you reach Hogsmeade, or fall into the lake, whichever happens first. My point being, just _go_."  
  
"Not until you tell me what the hell is going on." Harry refused to back down.   
  
A pause, then very softly, "You don't want to know."  
  
Harry exploded. "_Don't_ you tell me what I want or do not want to know! You don't even—"  
  
"Well you obviously can't see for yourself, can you?"  
  
"Look," Harry said harshly, shoving Draco hard up against the wall. "If you had, say, tapped me on the shoulder, or tugged on my sleeve, I can let it go. But when you attach your mouth onto mine, entirely without my consent I might add, _that's_ a completely different matter."  
  
"What, never been kissed like that before, Potter?" Draco saw an almost imperceptible flicker cross Harry's clear green eyes, and his lips curled in a sneering smile. "Then I was doing you a favour, now wasn't I?"  
  
Harry looked mildly revolted. "If you consider kissing me a favour, Malfoy, I never want to be in your debt."   
  
Draco managed a sly grin, and the mounting tension between them eased slightly. "If you were in my debt, Potter, believe me, I'd make you do a _lot_ more than that."  
  
Harry now looked disgusted. "Oh shut up and stop begging the question, Malfoy. I'm _waiting._"  
  
Draco's grin broadened. "For what? Another—"  
  
"Your explanation," Harry hastily cut in, taking a step back and eyeing Draco with more than just suspicion. "What is the _matter_ with you? Why are you so kissy-feely all of a sudden?"  
  
Draco's smile faded; the hostility was instantly reinstated. "I am not kissy-feely," he snapped waspishly.   
  
"Okay, then I think the description 'horny' would suffice." Harry smiled victoriously when he saw Draco's eyes darken, and continued, "So is that how you get some, Malfoy? Creeping around half-clad and pouncing on unsuspecting victims?"  
  
"That's rich, coming from someone who hasn't even snogged before." Draco's eyes flashed with dawning rage. "And what about you, Potter? What were _you_ doing out in the Forest?"  
  
Just then, Draco abruptly realised that the annoying drone in his head had subsided, and he hadn't noticed it because he was so absorbed in talking to Harry. Then again, a part of his mind told him that it had subsided _because _he'd been talking to Harry, standing there less than two steps away from him for the past five minutes.  
  
"That's not the issue at the moment, now is it?" Harry eyes flashed jade lightning as they caught the brilliant dusk sunlight. "Shell it out, Malfoy, I want to hear it."  
  
Draco raised his eyes to Harry's, looking mutinous and despairing at the same time. "It's complicated."  
  
"You've said that before, and it's a lame excuse. You're insulting my intellect."  
  
"Sure took you long enough to figure that out," Draco retorted placidly. "All the more proves my point."  
  
But he could feel his resolve dwindling, the edge of his cutting remarks getting blunter, more feeble, and all this while he was just stalling, as he tried to think of a way to explain this, and there was none. And suddenly he felt tired, like holding back a sneeze that was just aching to be let out, the pressure of a torrent of tears pressing against the back of his eyes, and it was wearing him thin.  
  
Harry's mouth was set in a line of grim determination. "Talking to you is like trying to draw blood from a stone." He took a step back, shaking his head angrily. "Forget it, maybe Dumbledore will be able to get more helpful answers from you."  
  
Harry made to turn away, but Draco reached out and caught him by his left wrist. He stopped and looked back at Draco, his green eyes cold, masked with complete calm, and said nothing, his gaze mutely questioning.  
  
Draco felt the electric tingle of Harry's pulse fluttering in his wrist; he took a deep breath. "You really want to know?"   
  
"Yes, I do." A long-suffering impatience edged Harry's words.  
  
"When I said it's long and complicated, I really meant it." Draco's voice bore a note of urgency, and he looked around anxiously, worried that the other Gryffindor players would come looking for Harry. He wondered how long they'd been standing there talking; the truth was that he had no idea, because with Harry the minutes seemed to fly by like heartbeats, yet felt like hours on end.   
  
Just like, he was reminded bitterly, the way people felt when they were— in love.  
  
Casting another furtive glance around, Draco dropped his voice to a whisper. "Meet me in the trophy room, midnight. I'll explain then." He lifted his eyes, looking straight into Harry's, an uncertain emotion darting in his irises of misty grey. "And from now until then, think about everything you don't want to know, and don't say I didn't warn you about this, Potter. Ten Galleons say you'll regret ever asking, so if you come to your senses before then, do yourself a favour and just don't turn up."   
  
"Nice try, Malfoy." Harry stepped back, surveying Draco's expression with a critical look. "Very scary and all, except that it's about the oldest trick in the book and entirely unconvincing in your case. Since when do you care what's good for me?" Harry gave a scornful laugh; then completely without warning, he raised his wand, pointed it at Malfoy's hand, which was still holding on to his own wrist, and muttered a spell,  
  
"_Manicam inice._"  
  
A jet of dark rusty silver light shot from Harry's wand; Draco let out a startled yelp and withdrew his hand, stung. He glanced down — to his horror, he found attached to his wrist, a _handcuff.   
  
_Draco stared in disbelief. There was just one cuff, securely locked, the thin metal band encircling his left wrist, a few dull metal links trailing after it.  
  
Harry looked crestfallen. "Damn. Only half-worked."  
  
"What _the_..." Draco looked up at him, dismayed. "What the fuck is this for? Get it off me!"  
  
Harry gave him an angelic smile. "Sure. Tonight. That's the collateral, to make sure you turn up." He snatched up Draco's wrist, inspecting his handiwork; too shocked to resist, Draco let him. "Well only one cuff worked, but it looks secure enough. Let me just warn you that any attempt to remove it physically or magically will only make it tighten more and more."  
  
"You expect me to walk around school with _this?_" Draco still looked aghast. "Very kinky, Potter, didn't know you were into bondage and such."  
  
Harry ignored Draco's last statement. "Just be glad the other end isn't attached to, oh I don't know... the Quidditch goal-posts, for example. That's decidedly more conspicuous, I must say."  
  
"Fuck you, Potter," Draco spat, anger flooding in to replace astonishment. "I'll get you for this."  
  
"That lacks a certain viciousness, when you're the one with the handcuff on." Harry stepped aside easily, a smile of triumph curling his lips in a not entirely unattractive way, in Draco's opinion. "And you thought that Gryffindors didn't have creative ideas."  
  
"Oh, Slytherins have creative ideas too," Draco said through clenched teeth, his voice thinly controlled. "Only more violent and expressive ones, usually involving knives, whips, torture and generally a lot of pain." Draco's mouth turned upward in a cynical, humourless smile. "But I see you're going for the flat-out humiliation technique, which is on the whole rather effective too. Congratulations."  
  
Something flickered across Harry's face; muted surprise, mingled with a certain contriteness, and Draco thought that he looked almost abashed. "I'm not doing this to humiliate you, Malfoy," Harry raised his eyes to meet Draco's; they were completely clear, almost heartbreakingly sincere. "I'm just making sure you don't renege on your deal."  
  
"I thought the point in question was whether _you'd_ be there."   
  
Harry's eyes hardened, the restless emotion within them coalescing into solid stones of emerald. "I don't trust you, Malfoy. Don't think I don't remember what you tried to do to us in the first year. And since then my fingers and toes and _your_ fingers and toes won't be enough to count the number of times you've tried to get us into trouble." A grim, yet distinctly smug grin. "And failed each time, I might add."  
  
Draco frowned, tilting his head slightly, giving Harry an appraising sort of look. He'd been surreptitiously doing this a lot during their conversation, as if noticing certain things about Harry for the first time; the way he stood, his left foot always an inch or two in front of his right. The way he held his shoulders straight, upright, belying a confidence and quiet poise of someone who had the world at his beckoning, who couldn't want more than he'd already got.  
  
"And you think a cuff around my wrist will ensure I'll be there tonight?" Draco managed to restore a certain forced tranquillity to his voice, although everything was steadily crumbling to bits under the surface. "I think not, Potter. The only thing that'll guarantee my presence there is if you chain me to yourself, and that doesn't lend itself too well to Quidditch practice, does it?"  
  
To Draco's surprise, Harry's face eased into a smile; a simple, knowing smile. "Take a closer look at your new accessory when you get the chance." He nodded toward the cuff; it looked coldly incongruous on Draco's wrist, although the metallic silver well matched his platinum blond hair.   
  
Before Draco had the chance to inspect his cuff in greater detail, Harry continued, "I don't think the cuff will make you turn up. I don't take your word for it, either. But," and here Harry allowed a small victorious grin, "maybe a cuff bearing my name will make you think twice about skipping our appointment tonight."   
  
Draco's heart stopped momentarily, and his gaze cut down at the cruel metal bracelet that shackled his wrist, his eyes widening in a dizzying rush of utter disbelief. _What—_  
  
Harry's grin broadened, a dawning smile in the setting sun. "I don't think you'll fancy walking around school tomorrow labelled as property of Harry Potter, now would you?"  
  
And at that moment something shattered in Draco's face; something fundamental, something so natural and innate that it sieved through all spectrum of emotion, a foundation that splintered and fell apart at the crash of Harry's words. A stab of anguish flashed like lightning across Draco's features, rendered delicate in the wake of hopeless pain, shadowed in helpless despair, although in the blink of an eye it was wiped blank, like troubled circles in the sand washed away by the mockery of the merciless sea.  
  
Harry was startled when he saw the raw emotion break across Draco's impassive face — he blinked, and looked again, but it was gone, like a wound closing in on itself; a trick of the eyes, a play of the slanted golden light which threaded tinselled silk into Draco's hair of blond.   
  
Or perhaps, Harry thought, just a deception of the mind.  
  
When Draco looked up, his eyes empty shadows of crushed grey. Harry noticed that his hands had clenched themselves into fists, so tightly that his knuckles were white-tipped.   
  
Draco said nothing, just stared hard at Harry for a prolonged moment, and gradually the cold flame of emotion flowed back into his eyes, burning distant iciness and vulnerable pain at the same time.  
  
"Have it your way, Potter." Draco said softly, although resentment edged his voice like a blade, his eyes glinting hatred and bitterness sliced with raw pain.  
  
With that, Draco turned and walked away.   
  
Harry stared after him for a few moments, still very suspicious and utterly confused. That parting look Draco shot him still jarred him as particularly unsettling — was it something he had said?   
  
With a baffled shake of his head, Harry gave up wondering and headed off to get his broom, which he only just remembered was his original intention. Thanks to Malfoy, he was now criminally late for Quidditch practice, and that thought jostled to the fore of Harry's mind as he relegated his other questions to later that night.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Only when he reached the sanctuary of his own dormitory did Draco allow himself to collapse on his bed, drawing painful air in rasping breaths, the dull coolness of the cuff against his wrist seeping through his skin like mercury poisoning his blood, hot and cold separated by the imperfection of flesh.   
  
It was just like the boundary he was trapped in now, the frontier where love and hate collided, the fine line now blurred by chemical alteration into absolutely nothing at all. Nothing but the weary tension knotted in his body, distilled desire burned down to its sheer essence, and it was becoming something entirely out of his control, not his own anymore.  
  
He turned the cuff over, and looked at it, metal glinting bright sparks from an indiscernible light source; it stung his eyes, and he blinked. Holding his wrist up for closer inspection, Draco saw the intricate inscription, not engraved by human hand, a finely crafted mockery set in smooth silver — **_H J Potter_**.  
  
The mark of possession. Branded. _Owned._  
  
Draco closed his eyes, soaking up the silent shame.  
  
_I don't think you'll fancy walking around school tomorrow labelled as property of Harry Potter, now would you?  
_  
Harry's words echoed soundlessly in Draco's mind, his own mortification corroding from within.  
  
_I'm not doing this to humiliate you, Malfoy.  
_  
Utterly humiliated, Draco flung himself face-down on the pillows, the cold metal grip of the cuff around his wrist digging into his flesh, fear and blinding terror unleashed within him, a stark reminder of what was almost too real to be believable; what he had inflicted upon himself, what Harry had done to him, and what he might never be freed of.   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
*looks around* Not _everyone_ thinks being Harry Potter's property is such a bad idea, do they? Well now that we've got Draco in handcuffs and Harry in charge, things finally can ignite with a bang in Chapter 3!  
  
  
^ ^ ^ ^ ^   
  
_~the thanks section!_  
  
  
Firstly, thanks to Minx and Heidi, who've bravely taken up the task of beta-ing the rest of this series and are doing a marvellous job at it!   
  
and to all my reviewers — thank you so much for the encouragement:   
  
Cassie Claire (my fellow H/D enthusiast — the only way to go, isn't it?), wingedkeys (here's to the epic-length emails! *g*), Karina (I always love your reviews, you know — thanks so much), Al (you're a wonderful fledgling slash writer, you know that?), Viola (the compliment of my imagery from someone who writes so well is priceless!), Kei (for the wonderful reviews for everything I write and the countless chat sessions!), Adrienne (thanks for your great review, and Draco certain suffers beautifully), Amanita Lestrange (again, I think you write lovely humor), Rosmerta (congrats, first to notice the alphabetical spellbook! thanks for the beta offer too), hermioneatkom/blair (thanks for your support), AngieJ (me, best HP slasher? *blushes profusely and hugs Ebony*), Gileonnen (I truly loved your review, it's of the highest praise), Keieru (keep writing, Filios was a good start!), Kim (all the best for your series!), Helen (thanks for your email review)   
  
Melissa (devoted reader! *g*), Dervish (for the beta offer & fab review too!), Noctua, Jazz, nortylaK (thank you for your wonderful reviews for my other fics!), Flourish (this, your favourite yaoi! I'm honoured...), Girl 17 (1st fic you read? I'm glad it worked for you), J. L. Matthews (fellow Slytherin fan! *g*), Cindelius (I liked your review lots, thank you!), Shanna Seanachai (hey, gone on writing hiatus? More Sev fic!), Tessie (1st reviewer accolade!), Treemonisha (thanks for your other reviews), Bec (good eye for noticing the invisibility significance), shell (glad you appreciate the backstory as much as I do!), Dee (I'm glad you're loving it so far), Romie, wendy, Helena, Mlle Elizabeth, Thia, Juniper, Su-chan, kath, Iulia Claudia, AnimeGirl, abby, Beth825, Mel, Kathy, Arachne, Elfie, Noir, lizzardqueen, Celeste Chang, Julianna Priest, Franzi Dickson, Jinxed Pinky, Elori, LIly Rose Granger, kkscatnip - kat, RatheraMutemwiya, Lyndred, King Zoe, r i d d l e, befell, Moriel, firestorm, Juliana, Terana, CatFish, Moxie, Mari, GentleWaterSoul, Camille & Quill, Black Goddess, May, Gunbunny, dagan, Shannon.   
  
Lastly thanks to Jen Faulkner for helping with the Latin spells — now they're actually accurate!   
  
  
^ ^ ^ ^ ^   
  
Again, please do leave a review — they make my day :)    
  
---  
  



	3. No Regrets

  
A/N: You know what I realised from the previous chapter? That a _lot_ of you folks have a mean kink streak hidden somewhere in there! About 9 in 10 reviewers mentioned that they liked the branded handcuff Harry made Draco wear... *shakes head in wonderment* Never quite expected such overwhelming reaction to that innocent metal band on Draco's wrist, and by popular demand, this definitely won't be the last you'll see of kinky branded handcuffs! :)   
  
Again, thanks to everyone for the support. Credits are right at the end.   
  
  
~In this chapter: The truth is sometimes the hardest thing to accept — how will Harry and Draco both deal?    
  


* * *

  
  
Irresistible Poison  
  
Chapter 3: No Regrets  
  
  
_Love lives in sealed bottles of regret._  
  
  
Much to his annoyance, Draco found that getting some solitude in the Slytherin common room or even his own dormitory was about as possible as finding a way _not_ to think of Harry as the evening drearily wore by. It was getting increasingly hard to keep his shackled wrist concealed from the others, so Draco finally decided to go to the library for some peace and quiet.  
  
It was almost eight in the evening when Draco stepped into the library; a sense of unfamiliarity washed over him as he glanced up at the four walls that closed in around him, his innate claustrophobia rising to the fore. He realised that he was about as at home in the library as a live flower crab sitting on a barbeque grill while tendrils of heat rose around it. That was his instinctive feeling — trapped.  
  
The Hogwarts library, however quaint and impeccably furnished, still reminded him too starkly of his father's library, back home; the entire drawing room, filled with nothing but book cases stacked to the ceiling with shelves upon shelves of books, all of them related, in one way or another, to the Dark Arts. So much a part of their life, the life of a Malfoy. So much a part of _him._  
  
Draco remembered with no small shudder the explicit warnings his father had constantly issued to him, of the many different ways to languish in disgrace and of course, the sinister admonition _never,_ as long as he drew a living breath with Malfoy blood running through his veins, to bring even the slightest reproach upon the family name. Or else.  
  
_Or else._ It wasn't even a discreet implication, or something to be left to merciful imagination. It was definite, predetermined, a verdict passed in advance of transgression. No room for negotiation, for clemency, much less for forgiveness.  
  
But _this. _Draco privately thought even his father would find it difficult to grade this level of sheer degradation he'd wreaked on the precious family name. If Lucius ever found out about this matter before he could find a way to reverse it, Draco fervently hoped the shock would finish his father off, because in the likely chance it didn't, he would probably have to implement Plan B, which was, very simply, the path of noble suicide.  
  
This very sobering and maniacally depressing thought spurred him to action, and Draco resolutely strode toward the shelves on the far right, where to his knowledge the more advanced magic books were housed. But anything remotely useful to his problem would probably be found only in the Restricted Section, and even as Draco neared it, an irate Madam Pince came bustling up to him, demanding to see a signed note permitting him access to the books. Of course, Draco didn't have a signed note, although at that moment he would have very gladly given Madam Pince a note of his own variety, which would be brief, to-the-point, and very vulgar.  
  
Giving up, Draco stalked out of the library. Books wouldn't help — he would just have to find his own way of explaining to Harry what happened, and an even more ingenious way to get out of this whole mess altogether.  
  
Why was he even _bothering_ to explain this to Harry anyway? Draco wondered. He wouldn't understand. Harry couldn't possibly, not even him, the Boy Who Made A Habit Of Frustrating Voldemort's Plans. This was a completely different struggle altogether, in many ways more sinister than facing the Dark Lord, because it was a conflict of the mind with the heart, a self-destructive fight against himself that was doomed whichever side won the battle.  
  
_No._ He didn't want, didn't need Harry's help. All he asked of Harry was to stay away from him, far away from any more lip-locking skirmishes, so that Draco could figure out how to fix this, reverse the spell, and reclaim himself again.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
His meeting with Malfoy lurked constantly on the fringes of his mind that night, and Harry subconsciously found himself glad as Quidditch practice drew to a close. Returning his broomstick to the shed (and noticing the patches of trampled grass lit by the bright moonlight, marking the spot of their confrontation earlier in the evening), Harry went back to Gryffindor Tower, showered and changed, then settled down to wait for midnight to arrive.  
  
Harry wondered if Malfoy would stand him up — a confident smile curled the edges of his lips as he remembered the handy little cuff that Malfoy would very likely want him to remove before he saw the daylight of tomorrow. That raised the chances of Malfoy showing up by quite a margin; Harry decided it was safe enough to venture out without worrying if Filch would be waiting for him to show up instead of Draco.  
  
At ten to midnight, Harry silently got to his feet and slipped on a set of robes, again feeling the painful absence of his Invisibility Cloak. As he trod noiselessly to the door, Harry hesitated; it hadn't occurred to him to ask Ron along on his midnight expedition, for the very simple reason that he would have to let Ron in on what happened between him and Malfoy the night before (the not-so-accidental collision of their lips, to be precise), and he wasn't exactly bursting with excitement to recount that incident, at least not out loud. Although, Harry had found himself replaying the episode over again in his mind a few times during the day — that in itself, he noted with agitation, was very unsettling.  
  
His soundless footsteps made their way to the trophy room, and he hid in the protection of elongated shadows, under the darkened cover of the waves of black night streaming into the corridors. Harry found his pulse quicken with anticipation as he neared the door of the trophy room, as laid his hand on the doorknob — _If Malfoy isn't there,_ Harry thought grimly, _I'll make sure he—  
_  
Harry pushed the door open, and saw Draco sitting on the edge of the grand polished oak table positioned in the middle of the room, his hands resting on his lap, fingers steepled, his head slightly bowed. The room was suffused in a dim cerulean glow, radiating from a small conjured fire placed at a strategic angle such that it cast its blue light across the expanse of the enclosed room, from one corner almost reaching to the other. It was a mellow, soothing sort of illumination, and Harry's eyes quickly adjusted to the pale, almost surreal atmosphere.  
  
Draco's head snapped up the moment Harry entered; his body seemed to tense, then consciously force itself to relax, although not successfully. He wore the expression of a trapped panther pacing its cage in the wild night, and his eyes betrayed a wary uncertainty as he watched Harry slip quietly into the room and close the door behind him.  
  
Harry wasn't surprised to find Draco there; what did surprise him was the transient despair that flitted across Draco's features, as if he was— _disappointed_ that Harry had come. The question of what was going on burned even stronger inside him.  
  
Harry crossed the room in a few steps, drawing to a halt in front of Draco.  
  
"So?" was Harry's short greeting, complemented by a hard, distrusting stare. "What's the big secret?"  
  
"I didn't think you'd come." Draco said neutrally, although his usual unruffled manner rang slightly hollow.  
  
"Wouldn't miss this for the world, Malfoy." Harry continued to watch Draco with cautious guardedness, and nodded curtly in the direction of Draco's left forearm. "Anyway, I didn't think you'd want to walk around school tomorrow with that handcuff, would you?"  
  
"I didn't think you'd care." Draco's eyes were tinted almost cobalt from the conjured blue flame as they flickered up to meet Harry's. "I thought you'd _not_ come for this precise reason, actually, so that I'd _have_ to walk around school tomorrow with this ghastly thing on me."  
  
Harry looked mildly outraged. "You think I'd intentionally leave that on you, just to— to shame you?" Harry seemed to have difficulty wrapping his mind around that insinuation. "Don't get me wrong, Malfoy, your ego's way too big for what you're really worth, and someone should pound that into you one day — but humility and humiliation are completely different things."  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. "Don't patronize me, Potter."  
  
Harry looked sharply at him. "You mean if it were the other way around, you'd leave the cuff on just to humiliate me?"  
  
Draco didn't answer, just dropped his gaze.  
  
Harry's expression changed to one of disgust. "I can't believe it." He shook his head angrily. "That's just like you, Malfoy."  
  
Draco didn't answer; he just lifted his hand, the single cuff sliding halfway down his wrist, and held it steadily in front of Harry. Shades of metallic blue reflected off the cuff in a sharp dazzle, and Draco raised his chin almost defiantly, his eyes asking a silent question, and waited.  
  
Harry didn't move for a moment, and just looked down at Draco's proffered hand. Then he sighed crossly, took out his wand, and tapped it lightly against the cuff, muttering "C_lavis Finge._"  
  
The cuff neatly detached itself at an invisible joint, and hung loosened on Draco's wrist, sliding a few inches down his forearm.  
  
Draco looked at Harry, his eyes glinting like tarnished jewels; then without a word, he slid the cuff off his hand and slipped it into his pocket. He eased off the table onto his feet and turned, walking a few steps away and standing facing the wall.  
  
Harry was increasingly convinced that Draco was going quite mad indeed; he actually hesitated briefly, before asking, his tone belying his suspicion, "So what is it you wanted to tell me?"  
  
"I didn't want to tell you. You wanted to know."  
  
Harry felt his patience start to fray — in fact, it was already in shreds. "Spit it out, Malfoy. I haven't got all night."  
  
"All right." Draco still didn't turn around, and spoke toward the wall. "Do you want the epic version of it, or just the gist?"  
  
"Whatever. I just want to hear it — _now._"  
  
Draco took a deep breath; this was hard, harder than he thought it would be. _Why?_ Why did he even feel as if he was obliged to tell Harry about the spell, just because he _asked?_ Draco usually took much pleasure in denying Harry the exact thing he wanted most.  
  
But he knew why. It was because he didn't think he could keep it within himself for much longer. Because it was tearing him up inside, knowing what happened, yet not knowing what to do. And he needed to tell _someone._  
  
"Well..." Draco started slowly, feeling at a rare loss for words, suddenly not knowing where to begin; he didn't want to turn around, to look into Harry's eyes as he talked. "Basically, I was trying to make something, but it messed up royally and turned out to be something else, and—"  
  
"There seems to be much vagueness and ambiguity," Harry interrupted sharply. "Am I supposed to fill in the blanks?"  
  
Draco whirled around, his eyes flashing anger and muted pain. "Just shut up and listen, Potter," he snarled, no humour in his voice.  
  
Harry glared back. "Then get to the point."  
  
"Fine." Draco snapped, his endurance wearing thin, and the words spilled from his lips like a long-suffered secret, raw and truthful and twisted with bitterness. "The point is that, I'm in love with you. That's essentially all you need to know."  
  
Draco's words were met with a long silence, the shock and disbelief almost palpable in the tension between them. It was like time had been spun backwards, and the moment seemed to be suspended endlessly as the meaning of Draco's words sank in, flowing like iced water over impermeable rock. The hiss of the flickering flame was the only sound in the room, echoing like the crack of a whip in the taut silence.  
  
When Harry finally spoke up, his voice was still faint with surprise.   
  
"You're joking, right." It wasn't even a question, more of a statement; as if the idea was far too impossible to even be contemplated as truth.  
  
Draco looked enraged and mildly pained at the same time. "Would I joke about something like this?"  
  
Draco's voice bore an earnest seriousness that, in Harry's opinion, sounded as incongruous as the entire situation right now, and Harry was beginning to feel like he was grasping on the fringes of a waking dream, ethereal and utterly, utterly unbelievable.  
  
Harry shrugged. "I don't know. You have a warped sense of humour."  
  
"Well yes, I mean tormenting Longbottom and making his cauldron blow up is laugh-your-ass-off funny and all," Draco gritted his teeth, trying to keep calm, "but being— being in love with you isn't remotely amusing in the least. In fact, I think the whole idea of it is traumatising enough to grant me license to become a full-fledged psychopath in later life. If I even make it there, that is."  
  
"You— you _love_ me?" Harry echoed, his voice ringing hollow, his expression as if he'd just swallowed something distinctly unpleasant and vaguely nausea-inducing, like a whole jar of Cockroach Clusters.  
  
"No, Potter, I am _in_ love with you." Draco's voice was sharp as a blade. "I did not _fall_ in love with you, that being an even less attractive option than falling off a cliff, and I certainly don't _love_ you. There's a vast and crucial difference there."  
  
"Can't really see it, actually." The note of suspicion returned to Harry's voice. "Look, I don't believe this. Is this some kind of joke? What are you trying to say, exactly?"  
  
"Have you even been listening to me?" Draco was exasperated. "Because I get the feeling that the echoes off the wall are giving me a more intelligent response."  
  
"Of course I heard you." Harry sounded irritated. "But what you're _saying_ is coming through as pure gibberish." He eyed Draco critically, as if he was a time bomb about to go off. "Are you sure you're not on drugs, Malfoy? Because you're hyperventilating and your eyes are dilated, kind of like Hedwig when she had a bad case of diarrhoea."  
  
"Thanks for the descriptive imagery and the concern, and I wish this whole thing is just a horrible hangover, but no, I'm not on drugs." Draco paused. "Although I wouldn't say no to some now, if you've got any."  
  
Harry looked dubious, and still sounded very sceptical. "But you— you _hate_ me."  
  
"Well spotted, Potter. I always thought I might have been too subtle before. Real sharp of you to notice, ten points to Gryffindor for a rare display of brain waves."  
  
"Shut up, Malfoy. And just so you know, I can't stand you either."  
  
"Glad we've got that straightened out." Draco tilted his head slightly; strangely enough, getting warmed up with his usual activity of insulting Harry had almost taken his mind off the fact that he was actually harbouring a dangerous, volatile lust for him. But the sensation was still there, like live undercurrents fed under his skin. "You know something interesting about you, Potter? You positively run screaming when I kiss you, but you're perfectly calm when I tell you that I'm possibly in love with you."  
  
"I'm sort of saving up the full impact of shock so I can wake the whole of Hogwarts when the horror of it finally breaks — which will be any time now, actually, so you'd better hurry up talking."  
  
"There's nothing else to talk about." Draco gave Harry a sidelong look, and just then a surge of the familiar electricity sizzled through him, like the intoxication of wine; he leaned back against the edge of the table for support, and said blandly, "I think you should leave."  
  
"Nothing else?" Harry looked incredulous. "The hell there isn't! For starters, you haven't told me why you're in love with me in the first place." He pondered for a moment, then continued, "I'm guessing a love spell of some sort, because if it isn't, then a place for you at St Mungo's is pretty much guaranteed."  
  
Draco wanted to shoot back a retort about how probably only the residents of St Mungo's Criminal Insanity wing would ever fall in love with Harry, but realised that would include him too; and all of a sudden, he felt so— tired, as if his energy was being drained by being with Harry. And from past experience, this weariness was always closely chased by an entirely different kind of energy — desire.  
  
Draco's shoulders sagged, and he relented. "You're right," he said, his voice sounding defeated. "It's a love potion."  
  
"_Love potion?_" Harry repeated, his voice a mix of shock and curiosity. "Aren't they illegal?"  
  
"If you're going to give me a moralistic rant on abiding by the statutes of wizarding law, spare me, because I feel ill enough as it is."  
  
Harry still didn't look convinced. "What happened, exactly?" He eyed Draco critically. "If you're making this up, just to let you know, it's very implausible. If you're not making it up, well, then you have a lot of explaining to do. And I'm warning you, Malfoy, if you're trying to pull a fast one on me—"  
  
"Oh, just shut up and let me talk for a bit, will you?" Draco snapped, glaring at Harry.  
  
To his surprise, Harry fell silent, and an expectant silence hung between them.  
  
Draco sighed, but there was no turning back now, and the truth was, he actually _wanted_ to tell Harry what happened — at this moment, anyone would have served as satisfactory audience, even Mrs Norris. It felt like holding a breathful of air for too long, and all he wanted to do was to be able to breathe properly again, without the agitated flutter of his heartbeat pounding in his chest.  
  
Draco caught Harry's impatient gaze, and took a deep breath. Something told him that he was going to need all the oxygen he could muster. "All right. Here's what happened."  
  
Draco launched into his narrative of last night's events, albeit haltingly. He didn't say half the things he thought — the story was reduced to passing snatches of the monologue of words that rushed through his mind, and he voiced only the necessary bits to string together the chronology of events.   
  
He talked briefly about the potion, glossing over the finer details to the part where he was just about to drink it. He related how it had turned out to be a love potion, and before he even learned that, how the first person he saw after he swallowed it was Harry.  
  
To his credit, Harry was a good listener — he actually remained quiet while Draco talked in low, urgent tones, the words falling from his lips like a summer rain. Harry still wore a sceptical expression on his face, but at the same time he was listening very carefully to Draco's words, observing his body language, weighing the grain of truth on the scales of probability that, for once in his lifetime and probably all prior and subsequent ones, Draco Malfoy was telling him the truth.  
  
When Draco stopped briefly to catch his breath, Harry finally interrupted.  
  
"What potion were you originally trying to concoct?" he asked, not taking his eyes off Draco. "Don't tell me you actually _intended_ the love potion from the start."  
  
"What does the phrase 'spell gone wrong' sound like to you?" Draco retorted peevishly. "Of course I didn't _intend_ to make the love potion — don't be daft, Potter, _honestly._" He let out a derisive snort.  
  
"Well, then what were you trying to make?" Harry pressed, refusing to let it go.  
  
"A Loss Of Substance potion." Draco muttered reluctantly, as if he'd just been forced to divulge a very embarrassing secret. "It makes you... well, disappear."  
  
"What?" Harry stared at Draco incredulously, an appalled look filtering onto his face. "Loss of substance? Where, Malfoy, _here?_" He angrily tapped a finger to his temple. "What were you thinking!?"  
  
"I don't know!" Draco burst out, jagged emotion gleaming through the cracks in his voice. "You don't think I haven't thought about that? _What_ I was thinking? Hell, ever since last night I've been doing nothing _but_ think, about how stupid I could've possibly been to mix the spell up, how bloody unlucky I am that the two spells are only a page apart, and how the fuck am I supposed to get myself _out_ of this!!"  
  
Harry blinked, taken aback by Draco's sudden outburst, almost feeling guilty for his provocation. He sobered considerably; something about the way Draco looked and sounded jarred him immensely, making him think twice about what Malfoy was actually saying, what he was trying to tell him.   
  
Harry looked at Draco again, harder this time, noticing the veiled pain threaded in his delicate features, a certain wretchedness that silently accented the seriousness of the situation.  
  
He wondered why he was even believing what Draco said. Since when did Malfoy ever speak truth to him? What if this was all some elaborate trap to... well, he couldn't quite tell what machinations this could possibly be a part of, but he was sure it wouldn't be at all pleasant. So why was he even _inclined_ to believe Malfoy?  
  
_His eyes. _Harry looked at Malfoy again, a long, calculated sort of gaze. _In his eyes. _  
  
And Harry also noticed that Draco had very pretty eyes, intense and full of feeling, although too often glazed over with cold arrogance and scornful disdain. But at rare times like now, they were innocent and painfully truthful, and beautiful, jewels of deepening grey lined with silver in the ice-blue light.  
  
_Oh, stop it. This is Malfoy. Stop gazing into his eyes._  
_  
_"Well..." Harry shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts, "Why are you telling me this?"  
  
Draco's eyes narrowed, his lips parting in indignant amazement. "I distinctly recall that you _asked._ In fact, you didn't just ask, you badgered me tirelessly and put me in handcuffs just to force me to tell you. And now you say, 'Why are you telling me this?'"  
  
Harry glared. "I mean, what do you expect me to do about this?"  
  
"Nothing." Draco answered shortly, looking away, turning his eyes though not his attention to the pale blue flame that alternately wavered and glowed. His voice was dull. "There's nothing you can do."  
  
"Well, is there a counterspell? A way to reverse it?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Will it wear off, after a while? Or can you take an antidote or something, to neutralise the effect?"  
  
A shrug. "I don't know."  
  
Harry looked irritated. "You seem awfully uninterested in getting yourself out of this mess, Malfoy. The ignorance really isn't helping. Do you think refusing to find out more about this love spell will make it go away?"  
  
Draco's eyes slanted sharply back in Harry's direction; they burned with a fervent intensity, almost heartbreakingly desperate. "You don't know how _much_ I want this thing to be off me, Potter." His voice seemed to quiver with faltering control. "So just shut up and get lost."  
  
Harry's jaw dropped; he clearly wasn't expecting the abrupt hostility, and his emerald eyes darkened with dawning anger. "I'm just trying to help, you ungrateful git. This is _your_ problem, incidentally."  
  
Draco held his gaze evenly, his eyes masked with absent emotion. "You're right, Potter. This _is_ my problem. And I don't need your help. It's none of your business."  
  
"It _is_ my business, Malfoy, because you so happen to have picked me to fall in love with." Harry took a step forward, a grim determination in his eyes.  
  
"Picked you, Potter? _Picked?_" Draco looked disgusted. "Would I, in any frame of mind sound or otherwise, pick _you_ to be in love with? _Would I?_" He closed his eyes, his shoulders hunching, and covered his face with his hands. "This is officially the worst disaster in the magical world. Years from now they'll be teaching this as a case study of 'Spells Gone Wrong Resulting In Fates Worse Than Death', and they'll have the powdered remains of my skull as authentic artefacts."  
  
Harry bit his lip, stifling a smile. Even given the situation, Malfoy's distraught humour was rather funny—  
  
"It's not funny, Potter," Draco snapped waspishly. "Wipe that smile off your face before I make it disappear forever — magically or otherwise."  
  
Harry's smile vanished, and his mouth hardened into a line. "Don't blame _me_ for this happening, Malfoy. This whole fix isn't even remotely my fault."  
  
"Of course it's your fault. If you weren't around this would've never happened."  
  
"Now I'm faulted for existing?" Harry blinked, annoyance flooding in. "You're just being unreasonable, Malfoy, and—"  
  
"Of course I'm being unreasonable," Draco cut in sharply, his grey eyes glinting with vivid flashes of anger and frustration. "I'm in love with you, for starters. That pretty much goes against all laws of reason, completely blows the roof of irrationality, and catapults right out of the galaxy of insanity." Draco paused, and took a breath. "_And_ it is _entirely_ your fault."  
  
Harry was about to snap back a retort, but then Draco did something that made the harsh words melt unspoken on his tongue.  
  
With a half-glance at Harry, Draco quietly turned away and walked over to the opposite wall of the room. He braced one arm against the wall, and rested his forehead in the crook of his elbow; something about Draco's posture stripped him of his usual arrogance, painting a forlorn, defeated silhouette against the flickering blue illumination.  
  
Harry was almost as surprised as if Draco had kissed him again. He stood for a moment, unsure of what to do; he realised how much he actually relied on Draco's provocations most of the time to keep him talking. And for all the times he fumed when Draco got the better of him, for the unfulfilled anger each time Draco managed to outwit him during their verbal sparring, this was the perfect opportunity to get back at him, right now when he was vulnerable, his defences down.  
  
But Harry just couldn't do such a thing, not even to Malfoy. He couldn't do it when they duelled in their second year, when he held back from hexing Malfoy when he had fallen, though Malfoy had no qualms about breaching the ethics of good sportsmanship and striking him. And now he still couldn't bring himself to say something hurtful, or even just sarcastic.   
  
Harry furrowed his brow and bit his lip, not knowing what to say or do, and just stood there, feeling awkward.  
  
"You should go." Draco finally spoke, his voice drained with a weariness not entirely physical. "It's late."  
  
Harry hesitated, and glanced at his bare wrist. "I can stay for a bit."  
  
"I don't want you to stay." Draco's voice was chillingly quiet. "In fact, I want you to stay _out_ of this, and stay _away_ from me, which really won't be too hard for you will it? That's all I want."  
  
"And do you think it's that easy?" Harry asked, though without rancour.  
  
"Staying away from me? You seem to have cultivated an admirable dislike for me over the years, Potter, I'm sure you can draw on that." Draco was still leaning face-forward against the wall, and his voice was slightly muffled.  
  
"No, I mean _this._ Do you think just walking away is the solution?"  
  
"It's the solution for _you._" Draco finally lifted his head off his arm, and very slowly turned around, leaning his back against the wall, as if every part of his body was aching with exhaustion. "And that's all you should be concerned with."  
  
Harry took a deep breath. "There must be a way to reverse it."  
  
"_And how if there isn't?_" Draco exploded, the suppressed aggravation and pain bursting to the surface, spitting angry sparks in his eyes now warmed with anguish. "Not everything has a counterspell! And this is— this is different from other spells, because it's not external, it's _inside_ me, in my _blood._ I haven't read up much yet, but I know about these kind of curses, and most of them are incurable except by death."  
  
The last word hung significantly in the air, ominous, the possible eventuality suddenly bringing home the gravity of the situation. They both remained quiet for a while, the immense pain twisted up in Draco's words bleeding into the atmosphere, making the air dense with a sinking sort of feeling.  
  
Finally, Harry spoke quietly. "This is a curse?"  
  
Draco gave him a pointed look. "What else would you call it?"  
  
Harry actually gave this thought. "I don't know. I just didn't think it'd be classified as a curse. I mean, love and curses aren't usually related."  
  
"It isn't love, Potter, it's a love spell. It thrives on _unrequited_ love, and drives you absolutely crazy because you find yourself longing for something you _know_ you don't want, and can never get. People routinely go insane under the effect of love spells. If this isn't a curse, then Avada Kedavra's a nursery rhyme."  
  
Harry wanted to tell Draco not to be so melodramatic, but something in him feared it wasn't such an exaggeration of the truth after all.  
  
Harry sighed. "So what you suggest we do about it?"  
  
"I told you. _We're_ not going to do anything. _I'm_ going fix it, and y_ou_ will do absolutely nothing." A pained look flitted across Draco's features, cast in pale shades of fatigue and exasperation. "How many times do I have to tell you, Potter? I _don't_ want your help. This isn't your problem, and as much as I know you enjoy sticking your nose in trouble and sniffing a high on it, the situation is messed up enough without you meddling any further."  
  
"And you think you can handle this on your own?" Harry answered angrily. "Just look at what you've done about it so far! A grand total of nothing! You don't even _know_ for sure there's no counterspell" He glared crossly at Draco. "You may not think I care, Malfoy, and frankly maybe I don't, but this is serious and I'm not going to let you get yourself in more trouble than you're already in."  
  
Draco's eyes betrayed nothing except for an unnamed emotion that shimmered through liquid grey. When he spoke again, his voice was level, toneless. "You really want to help, Potter?"  
  
Harry drew a controlled breath, not answering, his silence speaking his consent, although he couldn't bring himself to say it. Malfoy was getting on his nerves, and Harry had to strive to remain calm, reminding himself over and over again that Draco was excusably in a rather unstable state of mind.  
  
In response, Harry bowed his head slightly, then looked squarely up at Draco again; a silent nod.  
  
Draco stood staring at him for a moment, his head slightly tilted to one side, his expression almost contemplating, as if considering Harry's offer; a still silence once again reigned between them.   
  
A faint smile finally found its way to Draco's lips; bitter, yet extremely sad. Gracefully nudging himself away from the wall, Draco resolutely strode over to the door and opened it, gesturing the way out with a facile wave of his hand.  
  
"Then start helping." Defiance flashed in his eyes, streaked with unmistakable pain.  
  
Harry stared at him for a moment, shocked; then rage flooded in and swept away tentative sympathy.  
  
"Fine!" Harry's anger finally peaked, and he couldn't take anymore: he had his own dignity, dammit! He stalked right past Draco, out through the open door into the darkened corridors outside, then turned and looked back at Malfoy. "You're on your own now, Malfoy. Figure this out by yourself — I don't give a damn anymore."  
  
Without another glance, Harry walked away, and left Draco standing in the shrouded night, which mirrored perfectly the darkness within his soul.   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
*winces* Ouch. Isn't Harry brutal? Draco's trademark arrogance gets in the way again — can he really handle the situation without Harry's help? Find out how Draco and Harry both cope with their mutual isolation in Chapter 4!  
  
  
^ ^ ^ ^ ^   
  
_~the thanks section!_  
  
  
First, my betas: Minx (write more slash, girl!) and Heidi (have I converted you to a H/D shipper? *g*), thanks for the efficient beta'ing.   
  
and the reviewers, for all their the support:   
  
Cassandra Claire (my co-captain on the H/D ship! and D/Rh is a lovely prospect too *vbeg*), BlackRose (can't quite express how much I love your artwork), Viola (DB is a masterpiece when it comes to language. Kudos to you), Kei (thanks for your unwavering support, girl - love ya), nortylaK (your reviews are all wonderful - I'm your favourite author? *blushes*), Amanita Lestrange (warning accepted: here's more Draco angst to wring a parody fic out of you!), wingedkeys (my sick, twisted, willing fan? how about a handcuff with 'Rhysenn' on it? *g*), Al (responsible for the enthralling Snitch!), Karina (as usual, your reviews are gems), J. L. Matthews (who gets dibs on all things Slytherin), Maverick (Kim! you reviewed! thanks so much), Dee (I liked your review lots.. thanks), Bec (I'm truly flattered - and I liked LPM), Keieru (any more D/L forthcoming? you did land a spot on my faves page), Saitaina A. Moricia (glad you appreciate the slow build-up), Gwendolyn Grace (who's done one of the best OCs with Ryan in HMSC), Mari (CC's Malfoy is dead sexy, yes), Jen Faulkner (my Latin consultant!)   
  
Eloria, Tenshi no Shikyo, Lauren, Sarvihaara, Subaru, Adelina, Swythangel, Alix Vitesse, Nataku's Child, Rosmerta, Girl 17, Arabella, Claire (gosh, lovely new adjective: bouncingferretacious!), Huck Finn (thanks for your email!), Treemonisha, Jynx, Raye, Elfie, Mlle Elizabeth, Noctua, Kanga-Fetch'd, Loren Leah, Abby Stiles, AnimeGirl, Shannon, Lily Rose Granger, helena, Slaybelle, RatheraMutemwiya (lol! The pet/owl reference was witty *g*), PEZ, Simon Biber, Catriona Snape, Quill, Unicraze, Silverfox, Carol Anne, Lady Malfoy, Lady Neptune, ~*Fluff*~, DracoVader, Hillary Bean, clara2000, Firefly01, Godess, CatFish, ~*S.A.D*~, Amethyst, magma, Godess Death...   
...as well as the anonymous reviewer who gave me the longest review of all! You know who you are — thanks.   
  
  
^ ^ ^ ^ ^   
  
Again, please do review :)   
  
---  
  



	4. Indifference

  
A/N: First up ~ **Cover Art!**   
  
The talented BlackRose has drawn a _gorgeous_ cover illlustration for this series!   
She's a wonderful artist and I simply _love_ the artwork, which features Handcuff!Draco and To-Die-For!Harry. *g*   
You can find the cover art for Irresistible Poison [here][1].   
  
  
~In this chapter: Can Draco make it on his own, and can Harry turn his back and walk away? And, because everyone is asking for it, there is finally some schnogging, though maybe not exactly what you're expecting :) Read on!   
  
This chapter is dedicated to BlackRose, because her art truly inspires me to write more.    
  


* * *

  
  
Irresistible Poison  
  
Chapter 4: Indifference  
  
  
_The opposite of love is not hate; it's indifference._  
  
  
Draco managed to find some time to himself in the library after sending Crabbe and Goyle off to the kitchens to steal food and terrorise the house-elves. He seemed to be doing a lot of this lately — avoiding his fellow Slytherins, spending time in solitude, finding a certain woeful solace in being alone, even though nothing extinguished the feeling of being hopelessly incomplete.  
  
It didn't help that he hadn't been sleeping properly — Draco hadn't had a decent slumber in the past few nights, specifically ever since _that_ night in the Forbidden Forest. He'd either lain sleepless asking himself for the millionth time how he could ever have messed up so badly, or stayed awake thinking of Harry. Either option was proving highly detrimental to his mental well-being.  
  
Draco unhappily pored over the thick book laid open in front of him, the musty smell of the aged parchment making him feel slightly nauseous. Spellbooks all had a characteristic, archaic pungency to them, and it recalled to his mind the chilly memory of his father's own library, shrouded in dark secrecy, where he'd baited danger one time too often, where it all began, with that damned book.  
  
Draco had learned to live his life never acknowledging his mistakes.  
  
But when the mistake tormented you every waking second and sleeping moment, when it threatened to tip the scales of your sanity as everything you had so carefully framed around yourself came crashing down around the singular, aching knowledge that _it was all your own fault,_ it was hard not to admit you were wrong.   
  
It had been two days since he spoke with Harry, since he told Harry to stay away from him, and to his credit, Harry had actually complied, and hadn't so much as approached Draco in the past couple of days. Although physical distance did absolutely nothing to ease this mental isolation.  
  
He'd been spending an inordinate amount of time in the past days thinking about Harry. Thinking, not in the real sense of the word; it was more of a hollow contemplation, devoid of feeling, a very _detached_ kind of emotion. It was as if his mind was filled with nothing but images of Harry — how he looked, the colour of his eyes, his raven-black hair, his boyish smile — but Draco was unable to wrap his consciousness around these fleeting images, to give them depth and reality.  
  
But of course, the intangible memories promptly coalesced and formed when Harry walked into the library, accompanied by Ron and Hermione.   
  
Draco drew a sharp breath, his intake of air catching in his throat; Harry saw him too, and stiffened, his footsteps faltering briefly, causing Ron to bump against his back.  
  
"What is it, Harry?" Ron asked curiously, sounding puzzled.  
  
Harry's calm gaze rested on Malfoy for a moment that seemed to freeze in time as the tension crystallised between them, icicles that ran blue and silver from the recent days of their hostile truce. Harry couldn't see Draco's hands, clenched into fists under the table; then the instant melted by, felt and forgotten, and Harry averted his eyes and moved toward another table at the far end of the library, away from where Draco was sitting.  
  
In response to Ron's question, Harry casually shook his head. "Nothing," he offered over his shoulder, "I almost forgot something, that's all."  
  
In the past two days, distracted by Quidditch practice and a pile-up of homework, Harry had almost consciously forgotten about Malfoy and his bizarre love potion problem. It had been relegated to the back of his mind, only demonstrated by his almost natural avoidance of Malfoy in the hallways and during lessons — not that Malfoy had made that hard for him to do.  
  
Harry wondered again if Malfoy was just trying to wind him up, if this was all just a stupid fabrication to get him all worked up about nothing. But the faint flicker of emotion in Malfoy's eyes when their gazes had crossed was too stark to be forged, and too real to go unnoticed.  
  
Harry turned around, glancing back at Malfoy's table — but it was empty. Draco was gone.  
  
Harry felt a twinge of guilt, a stir of responsibility within him — but then he remembered Draco's words, still freshly etched in his memory, and sliced with bitterness and hatred: _Stay away from me. I don't want your help._  
  
_Fine, then._ An absent resentment simmered to life, and Harry resolutely pushed all thoughts of Malfoy out his mind, Malfoy and his ridiculous love potions and general dose of sheer madness. _Let him sort it out on his own. I don't care._  
  
Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. _I really don't care at all._  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Draco sat on his bed, a book propped open on his lap, completely forgotten. He could barely focus his concentration on a task at hand for more than five minutes without his mind straying to the invariable mental terrain dominated by thoughts of Harry Potter.  
  
Potter had a pleasant face, Draco mused absently to himself, forgetting that he was supposed to _not _think of him. Harry had that sort of intrinsic appeal, the kind that halted passing glances and drew second looks; it wasn't that he was handsome, but he definitely was _attractive._ Which only further proved that his hatred for Harry had been an acquired habit.  
  
Draco reached his hand into his pocket, his fingers coming into contact with cold metal, invoking an even colder remembrance. He slowly drew the cuff out, the sharp metal striking sparks of emerald fire from the conjured flame by his bedside, too familiar a colour.  
  
He held it up to the light, and inspected it closely for the first time; he'd never really looked at it carefully while it had been shackled around his wrist — every time he'd so much as glanced at it the manic hysteria had threatened to start all over again in his mind.   
  
Draco had been immensely surprised and relieved when Harry had taken it off him; he'd privately been afraid that Harry would refuse, either out of revenge or malice or just plain spite. After all, had their positions been reversed, he wasn't so sure he would've complied as readily as Harry had. Not without first milking the moment for what it was worth.  
  
But Harry was different from him. And Draco was secretly grateful for that.  
  
Draco ran his forefinger lightly over the engraved name, sunk in fanciful, cursive lettering on the metal band, not on the interior of it, but right across the smooth silver surface. Almost mocking, a muted insult to dignity, a mark of undisputed possession.  
  
_H J Potter._  
  
He pressed down hard against the engraved surface of the cuff, so forcefully that the embossed letters were imprinted on the flesh of his fingertip, a reverse branding of sorts. The very implication of the name seemed to bleed through his flesh, a stark reminder of reality, of invisible chains that ran silver poison through his veins, binding intangible cords around the one true thing that was supposed to be boundless — love.  
  
It was a sheer mockery, indeed.  
  
It was a loss of control, the most intimate choice ever given wrenched away, now predestined by a reckless coincidence completely unplanned and entirely horrifying. Disbelief still lingered amidst the last vestiges of hope, the slender hope that this was all just a terrifying dream, that perhaps the potion he'd taken was actually a severe hallucinogen and this obsession with Harry was only a delusion of his deepest fear coming to life.  
  
Or perhaps, his deepest longing.   
  
He didn't know the difference anymore. This was how the love potion was slowly corroding him from within, confusing illusion with veracity until they ran like a seamless blend, indistinguishable from each other, doused with a resentful hatred that alternately faltered and flared.  
  
He hated Harry. But at the same time, he loved him too. Two violent opposites trapped inside him, inconceivably yoked together, like polar ice pitched into the heart of a volcano. It was almost becoming too much to bear, the mounting tension threatening to explode with the slightest provocation.  
  
Draco closed his eyes, and he could almost hear the shatter of ice fissuring, cracking apart and splintering like smashed glass, leaving only broken mirrors of silence in his mind.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
"Defence Against the Dark Arts tomorrow," Ron groaned, taking out his quill and smoothing out a half-completed roll of parchment on the table. "I haven't finished my Imperius essay yet."  
  
"Neither have I," Harry answered, rubbing his eyes as he pored over the chapter in the textbook on the Imperius Curse. "Got about seven inches to go, I think."  
  
Professor Lupin had returned at the start of the term to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts to the seventh years, much to everyone's delight. Harry was very pleased that he'd be learning his favourite subject from the best Dark Arts teacher they'd ever had, especially since they were going to be taught how to fight the more advanced forms of Dark magic, it being their final year at Hogwarts.  
  
Naturally, one the first topics to be covered was the Unforgivable Curses. Ever since the incident with the faux Mad-Eye Moody demonstrating the Curses in front of their terrified fourth-year class, Dumbledore had deferred the topic to be covered only in the seventh year. He hadn't actually even authorised Moody's in-class Imperius demonstration to begin with.  
  
Consistent with his creative, insightful approach to teaching the subject, Professor Lupin had asked them to write an essay about Imperius. The assignment was not simply to expound on the history and function of the curse, but also to give personal viewpoints and a critical analysis on _why_ they thought the Imperius Curse was so deadly effective.  
  
"Fighting Dark curses isn't just about memorising counterspells," Lupin had wisely told them. "To successfully repel a curse, you have to _understand_ it. You have to be aware of its source of potency, how it strikes its target the deepest. You don't just want to know how it works; more importantly, you have to know _why._"  
  
"Why — what the hell does he mean, why?" Ron grumbled; he'd clearly finished the easier part of the assignment which could be lifted directly from the textbook. "_Why_ does it work? Because the spell hits you and you can't think properly and you just do whatever the person who cast the spell tells you to, that's why. How the hell am I supposed to fill—" he checked the parchment length, "ten more inches of parchment with that?"  
  
"You could try really big handwriting," Harry suggested unhelpfully, distracted with his own unfinished essay. He tried to recall his experiences with the Imperius Curse, drawing on first-hand knowledge of how the Curse felt, and what it was like to fight against the sensation of powerlessness.  
  
Fiery ice and cold flame, detached bliss and conjured heaven, that's how Imperius felt. It was the most beautifully hollow sensation ever imaginable, so rich with an emptiness that felt both ephemeral and everlasting, and it was like drowning in wine, intoxicating yet mortal, whitewater closing overhead, obliterating pain and pleasure alike...  
  
Fighting it off required every ounce of conscious willpower Harry had possessed. It called for every shred of concentration he could muster, coupled with the singular mental determination that he would _not_ succumb, drawing on a genuine revulsion for what that foreign, haunting voice in his mind compelled him to do, the fervent conviction that he _did not want to yield._  
  
It was all about control, Harry decided, chewing thoughtfully on the tip of his quill as he deliberated on how to phrase his thoughts into words. It was the ability to make someone yield to something which even they knew wasn't true, and make him helpless to behave otherwise; a knowing deception, one that blended truth with lies and blurred the boundaries of coercion and willingness.  
  
Satisfied with his mental answer, Harry set the tip of his quill against the parchment, and began to write.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Draco spent the rest of the evening immersed in his homework, an extremely rare occurrence for him. He couldn't remember ever putting so much time and effort into a single essay before, and he didn't know if he was throwing himself into work just to distract himself or whether the topic of the assignment truly intrigued him so much. Probably both.  
  
He set his quill down, balancing it on top of the bottle of ink on his bedside table, and started measuring the length of his parchment, now finally completed and ready for submission. To Draco's utmost surprise, he'd actually exceeded the minimum requirement by a good fifteen inches. Quite momentous, indeed.  
  
Draco flexed his fingers; they ached from writing almost all evening, especially while in a position on his bed that wasn't quite conducive for proper writing. But he didn't want to go back to the library in case Harry and his friends were still there, and the Slytherin common room was, as usual, a riot in the making.  
  
After tidying his scroll away, Draco found himself compulsively reaching for the handcuff in his pocket again.   
  
He took it out and looked at it, its silver glint now dulled by smudges of his own fingerprints. His almost instinctive need to keep the bloody handcuff close to him was, to say the least, very disturbing. He didn't quite know why — perhaps because it had Harry's name on it. Or perhaps because it was so bitterly ironic that this ugly, degrading contraption was actually representative of the situation he was locked in right now, bonded to Harry in a non-physical sense, which was truly far worse.  
  
Draco thought about that spell Harry had used to create the cuff — it really was a nifty little spell, not to mention with a high kink factor. Draco was surprised that he hadn't learned it before, considering how he prided himself on being well-versed in obscure, quirky charms. And he was even more surprised that _Harry_ knew spell in the first place — _Perhaps Gryffindors do have more spunk than we credit them with._  
  
He'd been reading extensively over the past few days, sifting through as many spell encyclopaedias and index books as he could get his hands on. In the course of it, he recalled coming across Harry's cuffing spell on a few occasions. Draco heaved up a particularly formidable-looking black leather-bound volume onto the bed and began flipping through it, his fingers deftly finding the page he was looking for.  
  
It was a Binding Charm — a simple, clever spell that conjured a pair of handcuffs, and which was unbreakable by anyone other than the caster unless very advanced, complicated magical spells were used. _The power to unlock the cuffs was unique to the person who cast the spell, and thus the name of the spell-caster was engraved on the cuffs to prevent confusion of ownership,_ the book said.  
_  
How very conveniently humiliating,_ Draco thought grimly, scanning the details of the Binding Charm.  
  
Evidently, Harry had remembered the charm wrongly — instead of the accurate _manicas inice_, Harry had said _manicam inice_, which had accordingly resulted in only one handcuff appearing. Draco mentally recanted on what he'd said about Gryffindors having any flair at all — it wasn't very impressive knowing a spell but casting it wrong. Although Draco reckoned he should be thankful Harry hadn't miscast the spell in a way that resulted in his wrists becoming the size of turnips or something horrid like that.  
  
A wave of bitterness washed over him. _*I* should be the last person to talk about messed-up magic._  
  
Draco sighed, and started to memorise the Binding Charm, which he had a feeling might come in useful some time in later life. "_Manicas inice,_" he muttered to himself. "Not _manicam_, that's the wrong one, it's supposed to be _manicas._ Whoever came out with this spell, anyway? Probably some egotistic eighth-century warlord with too many slaves so he had to _label_ all of them to keep track..."  
  
"Draco?" came a familiar voice, and the corresponding head of Goyle poked itself into the dormitory, lit with a broad, goofy smile. "Oh, _there_ you are! I've been looking all over Hogwarts for you!"  
  
Draco sighed irritably. "Really. And what a lucky coincidence that you've managed to tracked me down, since the Slytherin dorm is about the last place you'd expect to find me! Even though I keep all my stuff here and sleep here every night. Spiffy detective skills, Goyle."  
  
"Um... yeah." Goyle clearly didn't grasp the sarcasm. He lumbered in, and looked curiously at Draco. "What are you doing?"  
  
Draco surreptitiously slid the handcuff back into his pocket. "My homework, of course."  
  
"Who were you talking to? There's no one here." Goyle looked quizzically around the empty dormitory. "Are you talking to yourself, Draco?"  
  
"Yes, it's about the only way I can be sure of intelligent conversation these days," Draco remarked dryly.  
  
Goyle looked slightly put out. "Oh, come on, Draco. You keep ignoring us these past few days... are you mad at us about something?" He looked shifty, then approached Draco on the bed, and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "You're not angry about the chocolate cupcakes, are you? Because that was all Crabbe, not me."  
  
Draco frowned. "What?"  
  
Goyle looked contrite. "The chocolate cupcakes your mother sent last week."  
  
"I thought you said my owl ate them."  
  
Goyle glanced over his shoulder, as if afraid someone might overhear him. "No," he said, shaking his head, his eyes gleaming. "_Crabbe_ ate them. He was afraid you'd be mad, so he said your owl did it."  
  
"Oh well, he's absolutely right. I am mad. With both of you. So go away." Draco picked up another book and held it open in front of his face. "Don't you have anything else to do? Have you finished all the food in the kitchen already? You can start eating the house-elves next."  
  
Goyle looked revolted at first, then seemed to consider the idea. "You mean they're edible?"  
  
"How would I know?" Draco rolled his eyes. "Why don't you run along and find out? And while you're at it, you can eat Mrs Norris for dessert. Now go away and leave me alone."  
  
Goyle looked unhappy. "You hardly ever hang out with us anymore," he complained in a whining voice. "It's no fun without you. Even Potter has started to notice, and it's getting boring because you're not around to help us make fun of—"  
  
"What?" Draco's head snapped up immediately. "What did you just say? About Potter?"  
  
Goyle blinked, and took a moment to mentally rewind his own sentence.   
  
"I said," he repeated slowly, "Even Potter's noticed you're not hanging out with us nowadays. He asked 'So where's Malfoy?' when we bumped into them just now."  
  
"And what did you answer him?" Draco demanded sharply.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"You don't know what you told him?" Draco's voice rose in annoyance.  
  
"No. I said, 'I don't know'." Goyle blinked dully again. "Then I went all over Hogwarts looking for you and finally found you here."  
  
"Yes, very thoughtful of you." Draco sighed, and leaned back on his bed. "Well if Potter ever asks you again, tell him it's none of his bloody business."  
  
Goyle brightened. "Can I _show_ him it's none of his bloody business, too?" He cracked his massive fists with unsettling enthusiasm, trying to look mean and menacing and actually succeeding quite well.  
  
"_No!_" Draco snapped roughly, without thinking. "You hit him and I'll kill you."  
  
Draco was genuinely shocked at his own words the instant they spilled from his lips; Goyle goggled at him incredulously.  
  
Draco took a deep breath, and clarified, "What I mean is, if anyone's going to do anything to Potter, _I'll_ be the one." His words were carefully ambiguous. "And I don't want you crippling him before I have a chance to get at him."  
  
Goyle seemed sufficiently satisfied with Draco's explanation, and grinned a broad nasty smile. "All right! Go Malfoy!" He pumped his chunky fist into the air in a ridiculously camp fashion. "You go get him!"  
  
Draco said nothing in response, lowering his eyes to the meaningless blur of text. He waited until Goyle disappeared out of the door, his heavy footsteps fading away, then set the book down and sat staring off into space.  
  
"Yes," Draco said softly to himself, "I wish I could."  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Four hours later, at one in the morning, Draco was still awake, although barely so. He was in bed, lying on his side, the copy of _Most Potente Potions_ he procured from the library resting in a few inches in front of his face. The covers were pulled all the way over his head, shielding him from view. Dim wand-light provided sufficient illumination to read, but his eyes were getting tired and bleary. It didn't help that there wasn't anything remotely useful in the book, since it only dealt with legal, mainstream potions, and love potions were, to say the least, outlawed.  
  
Draco sighed, and closed his eyes to rest; the lighted wand-tip flickered and faded, and his wand silently dropped from his fingers onto the sheets as he started to doze, and finally he fell asleep.  
  
  
  


> _Darkness and confusion flowed in palpable waves all around him, and the bitterly cold wind stung his face like icy needles. He drew a sharp, almost painful breath and looked around wildly, his shrouded surroundings gradually becoming more distinct, painted in bold strokes of black night on every side of him.  
  
He recognised the place: he was in the heart of the Forbidden Forest.  
  
The trees and thickets towered ominously over him, so dense that they trapped the darkness in a continuous black hedge, streaked with the faintest veins of pale moonlight, like traces of silver unicorn blood spilled across the inky sky.  
  
His limbs were leaden and recalcitrant as he tried to take a step forward. A dull pain shot through his arms, and slow horror dawned as he realised that he_ couldn't_ move — he was bound to the thick, gnarled trunk of an immense tree, so tall its branches disappeared into the mist above.   
  
His eyes widened, horrified, disbelieving; both his ankles were fettered, and heavy chains encircled his waist, restraining him against the tree. Sleek iron bands manacled both his wrists — they resembled the bonds Roman slaves used to wear — and his arms were pinioned on either side of him, flat against the tree trunk. The rough bark chafed against his back, rubbing his skin raw; he couldn't quite figure out if he was wearing anything at all, but if he was, it didn't offer much protection from the abrasive wood, or any insulation from the biting cold.  
  
He tried to twist his body around to get a better look at the bonds shackling him; he suddenly sensed a flash of movement to his left, and as the silhouette swam into focus, his jaw dropped.  
  
Harry appeared by his side, seeming to coalesce from the substance of shadows, born from nothing yet filling every space between them. Without any hesitation, Harry moved closer to him, his eyes like emerald moons in the starless night.  
  
He stared, forgetting to struggle against his chains, his body still awkwardly aligned against the trunk. His fingers compulsively gripped the rough bark beneath his palms, as if grasping for support that wasn't tangible, and he didn't register the pricks of pain as the thorny wood drew shards of blood.  
  
Harry said nothing, only glided even closer, coy seduction exuding with his every movement, silent and graceful like the midnight breeze.   
  
He shook his head and blinked once more, scarcely believing; but when he opened his eyes again, Harry was still standing in front of him, their faces merely inches apart, the light in Harry's eyes beckoning him like virgin rays of dawn, piercing through the darkness, shattering the night.  
  
He felt his breath catch in his throat, and he parted his lips to speak, but no words found form, only silent wonderment; then suddenly time rushed forward in a dazzling burst, like a splintering hourglass, and the next moment Harry's mouth was on his, kissing him, hard.  
  
Everything except his pounding heart ground to an abrupt halt; the moment immersed him completely, and Harry's lips were all he could feel, scorching his own with feverish passion, mouthing wordless desire. He shivered helplessly as exquisite pleasure overwhelmed him, and he strained against the cuffs that held him back, which kept him away from where he belonged...  
  
Harry's hands slid across his shoulders, running over his neck and moving to hold his face, firmly yet tenderly, and the kiss seemed to go on forever as eternity gave itself up in careless inconsequence. Harry's manner was slow and gentle, taking his own time, drawing out the moment with painful pleasure, and Harry kissed him so deeply that it almost hurt, not on his lips but in his heart.  
  
He arched forward plaintively, moaning against Harry's mouth, losing himself in the kiss; suddenly he was vaguely aware that the tightness gripping his body had abated — the cords binding him slithered off his body like metal serpents, and the cruel metal braces on his wrists melted into the mist, liberating him.   
  
Initial surprise quickly turned into ecstasy, and in this ethereal dimension where time ran like grains of sand between his fingers, he found himself free at last. Without hesitation and riding the surge of pure instinct, he desperately threw himself forward, against Harry — but with a stomach-churning lurch everything suddenly slid from his grasp, dissolving into nothing; and he was falling, falling into darkness, falling into himself..._

  
  
Draco's eyes flashed open, wild with fever, and he bolted upright, breathing hard, his body covered in a cold sweat. Damp strands of his fringe clung to his forehead, and he raked a trembling hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes as the familiar surroundings of the Slytherin dormitory swam into focus.   
  
His entire body was still shaking as he covered his eyes with his palms, his mind's eye unable to be shielded, and the reality of his dream ran through his veins like poisoned blood. Draco drew his knees up to his chest and buried his face in his arms, trying desperately to collect his scattered thoughts now swirling in random panic.   
  
Harry.   
  
Kissing him.   
  
Kissing him like he had never imagined anyone could kiss anyone else before, and probably because that was exactly what it was — a figment of his feverish imagination. Because the day Harry Potter kissed him out of his own free will... he could probably make a lifetime out of waiting for that day.   
  
This wasn't the first time he had dreamt about Harry in this kind of scenario, and from the looks of it, this dream was by no means the last of its variety. What was even more disturbing was, his dreams were steadily becoming more deviant and sensual, and the presence of clothes in the dreams was becoming increasingly rare. Probably in the next dream he'd find himself gloriously naked with Harry, soaking in a clear glass bathtub filled with champagne.   
  
Draco shook his head vigorously to clear his thoughts as _that_ mental image invariably began to form in his mind. He really could do without that last straw to wipe out his sanity, whatever still remained of it.   
  
No, he definitely could not afford to fall asleep again — the dreams he'd been having were becoming unbearable. Vivid torture.  
  
Draco picked up the book he had been reading earlier, which lay half-open next to him, and reached for his wand, whispering, "_Lumos._" A quick glance around made sure that everyone in the dormitory was still sleeping soundly, and the grunting rhythm of Goyle's snores filled the still room.  
  
Draco turned a few pages randomly, and started to read again, holding his wand above the page. But the meaningless blur of words ran like ink and charcoal on wet canvas, dissolving in incoherence as the remembrance of Harry's kiss took prevalence over everything else, sending a warm shiver down his spine.  
  
_It was just a dream,_ he told himself, over and over again, a fervent mantra, although he wasn't quite sure if he was relieved or rueful. His shallow breathing had gradually eased, although the mental alarm showed no signs of reaching a plateau._ Only a dream._  
  
But deep inside, he knew that the essence of a dream was true yearning and fear, lost in denied reality.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Apart from the fact that they seemed to very conveniently avoid crossing paths of late, Harry mused to himself as he headed down the corridor toward Professor Lupin's classroom for Defence Against the Dark Arts, there was virtually no indication of anything else amiss with Malfoy.  
  
Well, _almost_ no indication. The lack of derisive remarks was, in itself, extremely strange.  
  
Class was steadily becoming a much duller affair without Malfoy's antics, Harry realised as he settled down next to Ron and Hermione, waiting for Professor Lupin to come into class. He remembered the countless times he and Malfoy had faced off in class or in the halls. Wand fireworks flared with abandon as warfare would erupt every once in a while, and the rest of the class would watch in fearful fascination as they duelled, a personalised variation of the Slytherin vs. Gryffindor rivalry. Such showdowns often landed both of them with detention.  
  
Harry's eyes cut across the classroom, searching out Malfoy's familiar figure amidst the Slytherins — the other boy was engaged in conversation with Pansy Parkinson, who was batting her eyelashes flirtatiously at him, although Draco for his part seemed less than enamoured of her. An air of indifference surrounded Draco's casual gestures, still graced with effortless arrogance.  
  
_Has he found a way to get around that potion?_ Harry wondered; but there was still the inexplicable absence of hostile confrontations between them. _I wonder if he has...  
_  
_But never mind Malfoy, _Harry thought suddenly, recalling to mind a disturbing dream he'd had last night._ I think his madness has rubbed off on me._ Harry had dreamt he was back in the Forbidden Forest with Malfoy, and it was almost pitch-dark, but what was most sinister was that _he_ was kissing Malfoy, not the other way around.   
  
_Eurgh. What a nightmare. Why the hell am I thinking about, heck, even *dreaming* about kissing him?_ Harry shook his head, disturbed and baffled._ Must be the post-traumatic stress disorder kicking in._   
  
Students were drifting to the front of the classroom to put their homework scrolls on Lupin's desk; their teacher appeared to be running late. Harry took his scroll out of his bag; Hermione, who sat next to him, was still writing furiously on a parchment already twice as long as the minimum requirement.  
  
"Want me to hand it in for you?" Ron offered. He was holding his own scroll in his hand; he'd eventually managed to fill the required length, with medium-sized handwriting and rather generous spaces in between paragraphs.  
  
Harry handed his scroll over to Ron. "Yeah, thanks." He got to his feet as well, meaning to go over to ask Seamus Finnigan about the scheduling of the next Quidditch match; this year, Seamus was in charge of coordinating and commentating for the matches.  
  
Ron walked down the centre aisle toward Lupin's desk, and as he approached, he came face to face with Draco Malfoy.   
  
Malfoy was holding a scroll almost as bulky as Hermione's, which presumably was his own Imperius Curse essay. Ron eyed the scroll critically, pure dislike and contempt crackling in his blue eyes.  
  
"Showing off how much you know about the Dark Arts, Malfoy?" Ron said acidly, giving Malfoy a venomous look. "Well I'm sure you know a hell of a lot more than you're letting on — with a father like yours, it's not hard to believe."  
  
Draco's eyes darkened to silvery coal, and he regarded Ron's thin scroll disdainfully. "Yes, Weasley, and I see _you_ can't afford enough parchment to write a decent essay — but with a family like yours, it's perfectly understandable."  
  
Ron stepped closer to Draco, his nostrils flaring, his eyes flashing with anger. "One of these days, Malfoy," he hissed hotly. "One of these days, my father will get a warrant to sweep out your house and expose your family for what they really are — _Dark wizards._"  
  
Draco's eyes narrowed, but he met Ron's gaze evenly, and answered very calmly, "Your father should sweep out your family's Gringotts vault first — I imagine the dust there weighs more than the gold."  
  
That was the limit.  
  
Ron snarled a string of unpleasant expletives and lunged forward, snatching a fistful of Malfoy's collar; Draco responded by jerking out of his grip, shoving Ron's shoulder hard, and—  
  
"Ron, leave it," Harry said firmly, appearing at their side and prying Ron's hands off Draco's robes, dragging him away.   
  
Draco's eyes flickered up to meet Harry's in brief surprise, and their gazes held for a fleeting moment, the space of a heartbeat, before Draco looked away to glare malevolently at Ron.  
  
Ron turned to Harry, aghast; in response, Harry took him firmly by the arm and propelled him away from Draco, leading him back to the Gryffindor side of the classroom.  
  
"What the heck was that about, Harry?!" Ron looked mildly indignant, and sounded thoroughly frustrated. "Why'd you do that for? I almost had him! I was going to—"  
  
"Ron, calm down..." Harry tried to put in, "you can't hit Malfoy..."  
  
"I have every right to hit him! He insulted me!"  
  
"But you started it, didn't you?" Harry pointed out. He'd been watching the exchange between Ron and Draco from Seamus's table, which was a short distance off.  
  
"So? He starts it every other time."  
  
"Don't be the one to pick a fight with Malfoy, Ron," Harry said reasonably, giving his friend a stern look. "He's not making a fuss for once, so don't go finding trouble with him, okay?"  
  
"And why the hell not?" Ron was obstinate. "He seems rather out of it lately, which is the perfect chance for us to get back at him for all the times he's ribbed us!"  
  
"Don't let this revenge thing get to your head," Harry warned. "And if you get into a scuffle with Malfoy in class, you're putting Lupin in a very difficult position, because he'll have to give you detention or take points from Gryffindor, and he clearly doesn't want to do either."  
  
"It's not fair," Ron said mutinously, scuffing his foot furiously against the table leg. "Why don't we get to throw the first punch, for a change?"  
  
"Because it's not right," Harry stated fairly. "We're not like him, Ron, and we don't pick fights just for sport, or hit people when they're down and out."  
  
"I don't care if Malfoy's down and out. It doesn't change the fact that he's a smug little bastard whom I would dearly love to punch in the face for all the horrible things he's done to us." Ron shook his fist. "He makes me so mad I just want to rip out his intestines and use it as jump rope."  
  
"Ron!" Hermione had come up next to them, and caught Ron's rather unpleasant description. "Don't tell me you've been fighting with Malfoy." She gave Ron a severe look. "_Again._"  
  
To Hermione's credit, Harry admitted that she had a good deal of self-control, especially compared to Ron. She held herself high even in the face of ridicule by the Slytherins, not retaliating or sniping back; the only time she'd reacted to their provocation was when Malfoy had insulted Hagrid, whereupon she had slapped him. But most of the time, Hermione took the Slytherins' affronts in her own stride.  
  
"Ron, you know very well Malfoy's just saying things to wind you up all the time!" Hermione shot Ron a disapproving glance as she rolled up her homework, finally finished. "Just leave him alone and don't get all bothered by him."  
  
"Yeah, take it easy, Ron." Harry agreed, and added, "Malfoy's not worth all that trouble, you know."  
  
Harry looked away, and suddenly saw Draco watching him, from across the classroom, and he reflexively paused, tensing slightly as eyes of grey rested evenly on him, calmly piercing.  
  
Draco wore an inscrutable expression on his face, like a slate wiped clean, and he regarded Harry with eyes that were filled with an ambiguity which could be read in half a dozen different ways. Simmering tension and gathering storm clouds edged Draco's gaze as their eyes held for a split second and a dash of eternity, before Draco lowered his eyes and turned away.  
  
Harry frowned; he felt annoyed at letting himself get drawn into the natural magnetism of Draco's eyes, for even entertaining that lingering look when he should be offering nothing but staunch refusal, both for Draco's sake and his own.   
  
Harry felt... confused. Malfoy was behaving very strangely indeed, and for the life of him Harry just couldn't decipher the mixed signals he was getting, which seemed to contradict one another — a spectrum of anger and haughtiness and hate and indifference and pain woven in swirling undercurrents, unfathomable and altogether very perplexing.  
  
Harry's eyes narrowed, continuing to watch Draco, whose blond head was now dutifully bowed over a textbook. For some amorphous reason, Draco appeared a lot bolder and more composed than he should rightfully be — casting glances that came across as coy and not just furtive, looking away just when he'd captured Harry's full attention... Harry got the impression that Draco was leading _him_ on, which was a rather contrary state of affairs given that the reins were presumably in his own hands, if the love potion story was true.   
  
_How ironic, _Harry reflected thoughtfully, _that the word potion slices 'love story' down in the middle._  
  
There always was a twisted sense of humour in the bitterest of ironies.   
  
Across the room, Draco clenched his fists under the table, feeling the weight of Harry's searching look upon him like the dense breath of a thunderstorm, dark and imminent, almost tangible, skirting on the fringes of his restless dream.   
  
_Why?_ Draco wondered, a rare confusion tipping the scales of carefully controlled panic. _Why did he tell Weasley to back off? What the hell is he playing at?  
_  
_That's just it,_ said a soft dangerous voice from deep within him. _He's playing. He's playing with *you*. Potter's enthralled by this new power, this power over you, and it's just a game to him, a cruel game of revenge. For all the things you've ever done to him, you've just given him the perfect way get back at you —he's torturing you with his presence.  
_  
Draco closed his eyes, pained. But had he actually expected anything less? Absolute power corrupts absolutely, even in the hands of the saint commonly known as Harry Potter. It was an evil too exquisite to resist, like Temptation walking around stark naked with a flashing placard that said 'Indulge in me!'.   
  
And Draco knew he was fleshing out his own punishment, and all he was left to contemplate was how much longer he could hold out. All he had to comfort himself was the slender ray of hope that he could find a way to reverse this spell before it bled him of all that he was worth, before it was too late.  
  
Draco glanced over at Harry, who was now smiling and laughing with his Gryffindor friends, and he quickly looked away again, his eyes stinging with a rising desperation.   
  
Or was it already too late?   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
So Harry can't help caring, can he? And Draco slowly goes to pieces, bit by bit... The battle of pride and desperation finally comes to a head in the next chapter, with promises of a snog or two if no one has any violent objections? (Harry doesn't get a vote here) Wait up for Chapter 5!  
  
  
^ ^ ^ ^ ^   
  
_~the thanks section!_  
  
  
First, my betas, Heidi and Minx, who're simply the best.   
  
Kei (here's to more days chatting endlessly over ice-cream!), Cassandra Claire (loved DS13, and hope this chapter met your snog quotient), Al (more H/D action in Snitch! but of course, I'll see to that *g*), Karina (a big hug for all your support, girl. Thanks so very much), Bec (who is *entirely* responsible for me falling in love with Seamus Finnigan!), Amanita Lestrange (and the Draco angst just gets deeper...), Viola (Kinky!Harry and LovePotion!Draco - lovely for a shipper button!), Hype (whoo hoo! Welcome aboard, you're a fab reviewer!), Arcina (*wonderful* review, no less - thanks so much), nortylaK (thanks for the constant encouragement!), Keieru (thanks again for the fanart for EoD! *g*), wingedkeys (Sevvie eh? Yes he'd be majorly displeased if he found out about Harry and Draco), Gwendolyn Grace (more ABJ... your Lucius is cooler than ice), Juniper (thanks for the comments, I'm flattered!), Eloria (we do love the handcuffs...no worries, they will be back!), J. L. Matthews (Slytherins do get all the good sniping lines, don't they?), little Alex (thanks for the hpslash review! Draco does suffer beautifully *g*)   
  
Arabella, Celeste Chang, Elfgirl, delentye, Rosmerta, Romie, Swythangel, Syl, Michi Chu, Taleyana, Abby Stiles, Saitaina A. Moricia, Moriel, Lucius, Miss Casidine, Soz, kkscatnip - kat, Weaver, Gryffindor, Chickadee Jannete, Subaru, Diabolique, *Shelley*, abby, mdx1, CatFish, Treemonisha, Mistwalker, Tenshi no Shikyo, iamtheanonymous, mary north, AnimeGirl, *vada*, Helena, Lady Neptune, Silverfox, angel_brat, Panda Pinke, Draco Skywalker, Nameless, Adelina, 491141, Lindsay, Novalee, dracaenas...   
...and again, last but definitely not least, my dear anonymous reviewer who still wishes to remain anonymous. :)   
  
  
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Drop a line in review and tell me what you think!   
  
---  
  


   [1]: http://rhysenn.morethanart.org/artwork/poison.htm



	5. Consequences

  
A/N: Thanks to the call of Real Life, this chapter took longer than expected… sorry :)   
  
At this juncture, I'd like to take the opportunity to introduce a new list that Cassandra Claire and I have started together! It's a distribution/discussion list for some of our previously-unpublished fics, and it's cruising really well so far, so do join in the fun... You can subscribe to the list [**here**][1].   
  
  
~In this chapter: Draco finds a reason to trust, and Harry finds a reason to believe. And did I mention the real-life snogging, finally? *g*   
  
This chapter is dedicated to my friend Si (aka Kei), for always being there for me. Thanks for everything, hon.    
  


* * *

  
  
Irresistible Poison  
  
Chapter 5: Consequences  
  
  
_Love is not a word; it's a sentence. _  
  
  
Professor Lupin laid all their corrected homework scrolls on the table, and looked up at the class with a pleasant smile.  
  
"Well. Here's the homework submitted last lesson, I've graded them and am just going to say a few words before returning them to you." He gestured expansively at the pile of scrolls, and remarked dryly, "Some of you have clearly taken the length requirement very technically indeed, and might be pleased to know that I did take note of your painstaking efforts to keep your essay exactly thirty inches long."  
  
Ron smiled sheepishly and looked at Harry, who grinned back.  
  
"However," there was a twinkle in Lupin's eye as he continued, "this homework assignment was generally very well done, with a few outstanding pieces of work." He picked up a thick scroll, and held it up. "Hermione has done a meticulous job in researching the history of Imperius through the Ages, going beyond textbook material and giving a very accurate account of the origins and development of the Curse. Five points to Gryffindor, well done."  
  
It came as no surprise, of course, although Hermione still blushed and looked very pleased with herself. Ron grinned and raised his eyebrows as if to say _What's new?_, but truthfully they were all glad for the extra points, since the battle for first place in the House rankings was a tight spot between Slytherin and Gryffindor. Harry gave Hermione a thumbs-up sign.  
  
"Another excellent essay worth mention," Lupin announced, "is written by Mr Malfoy."  
  
Harry's head snapped in Draco's direction, genuine surprise on his face; Draco didn't look at him, and was just staring fixedly straight ahead. A murmur arose in the classroom, comprising of the Gryffindors' displeasure that Hermione wasn't the only one whose essay was highlighted, and the Slytherins' satisfaction that they had representation in the honour roll.  
  
"Mr Malfoy has done an outstanding practical analysis of the Imperius Curse, which is actually much more difficult than the research since it incorporates personal commentary." At this Hermione frowned, annoyed at having her thunder stolen. Lupin continued, "He has managed to summarise the reason for Imperius' efficacy in a very succinct manner, and his essay is among the most insightful that I've ever read."  
  
Lupin picked up what was presumably Draco's scroll and unfurled it; Harry glanced at Draco again, and was once more startled to see the look of dismay on Draco's face as Lupin began to read selected passages from the essay.  
  
"_Imperius is so potent because of the absolute control it affords the one casting the spell — the victim is forced to bend completely to the caster's will, unable to fight it unless duly trained or in possession of special magical prowess,_" Lupin read out loud; the class was silent as they all listened. "_Imperius has been ubiquitous through the ages because of its simple incisive nature, in how it penetrates its victim deeply, permeating mind, body and soul. Other variations of the Imperius Curse include Mental Manipulation Spells, certain kinds of memory charms, and love potions._"  
  
Harry flinched slightly, sitting up straighter. He looked to Draco once more, and saw the blond head bowed, Draco's hands covering his eyes, his shoulders slumped. Harry stared at Draco, feeling a heavy sinking feeling in his chest as he listened to Lupin._  
_  
"_But even more so, the victim is confused, such that he doesn't know what to believe as truth or lie any longer, unable to distinguish between induced thought and real intention. This serves to disintegrate the victim from within — he no longer understands the difference between what he really wants and what the spell is forcing upon him, and in the end, this proves to be the most damaging way of breaking his resolve._"   
  
Lupin paused, then skipped a few paragraphs further down, near the end of the essay: "_Over time, probably the most destructive effect of Imperius on a person is the gradual, conscious yielding of the mind, until submission becomes almost voluntary, an acquired habit, and the spell has reached its ultimate success when the person truly believes that he is acting out of his own free will. That is when the Curse has finally conquered the last citadel of one's character — his heart._"  
  
Professor Lupin glanced at the class, smiling as he rolled up the scroll; Draco finally looked up with a blank expression on his face, although Harry couldn't see very clearly from Draco's profile.  
  
"I couldn't have described it better myself," Lupin favoured Draco with a curt, approving nod; Draco barely acknowledged it, just lowered his eyes once again. "Very well done, Draco. Ten points to Slytherin."  
  
The Gryffindors muttered in outraged protest — how could Malfoy get more points than Hermione? Several Gryffindors shot the Slytherins, Draco in particular, venomous looks, but the smugness on the Slytherin side took the wind out of their sails.  
  
Ron glared resentfully at Draco. "That slimy bastard," he hissed, anger in his low, tight tone. "Probably the only reason he knows so much about Imperius is because he has _practical_ experience! Why the bloody hell does he get ten points for having messed with Dark Arts?"  
  
"Keep it down, Ron," Harry cautioned; Ron's voice was mounting with each furious word.  
  
But Ron was livid. "This is outrageous!" he snapped, his eyes flashing. "What is wrong with Lupin? Why can't he see that Malfoy so obviously knows more about Dark magic than he should? This essay should actually be _evidence_ that the Malfoys are still very well-acquainted with the Dark Arts, and—"  
  
"_Ron,_" Harry repeated, louder this time. "Calm down!"  
  
Meanwhile, Lupin had begun handing out the marked scrolls, and the students made their way to the front desk to collect their homework. Hermione went forward to collect theirs while Ron and Harry stayed at their tables; Ron still fuming and muttering, Harry distractedly staring across the classroom — at Malfoy.  
  
Draco quietly went to the front, picked up his scroll and made his way back to his table. Without even looking at the grade, he shoved the roll of parchment into his bag, and sat down, still in the same dazed trance, the same empty look he wore when Lupin was reading out his essay in front of the class.  
  
Harry felt disturbed; he couldn't quite place the source of his uneasiness, although he knew that it definitely had something to do with Malfoy, and that something in Malfoy's essay had struck a nerve deep within himself. The essay said that love potions were a variant form of the Imperius Curse — was Malfoy describing what he was feeling, under the effect of the love potion? Was it really true? Did it really feel that horrible?  
  
Hermione came back holding three scrolls, and she distributed them to Harry and Ron. She looked sadly at her own assignment, rather put out that hers wasn't the best piece of homework submitted, and even more disgruntled that she'd lost out to Malfoy, of all people.  
  
Harry nudged her. "Hey, cheer up, Herm. Yours was mentioned as being the cream of the crop, too."  
  
"Yeah," Ron nodded, then added darkly, "And you know the only reason why Malfoy is so _knowledgeable_ on the subject is because his dad has a whole collection of Dark Arts things stashed away in their mansion. I'll bet Malfoy learned all that stuff even before he came to Hogwarts." He shook his head in exasperation. "Why Lupin is so blind to this is beyond me."  
  
Hermione looked thoughtful. "Do you really think Malfoy wrote all that from first-hand experience with the Curse?"  
  
"No," Harry answered, without thinking, just as Ron affirmatively replied, "Yes."  
  
Ron blinked, and regarded Harry incredulously. "_What?_"  
  
Harry felt rather embarrassed; but he continued reasonably, "No, I don't think so, because Malfoy was describing the effect of having Imperius—" he hesitated briefly, "or any of its variant spells cast _on_ a person; not the other way around."  
  
Ron was reluctant to concede. "Don't tell me you actually believe Malfoy hasn't dabbled in Dark Arts and the Curses!"  
  
"No," Harry answered. "I'm— positively sure Malfoy's messed with Dark Arts." _Messed up, too,_ he added silently. "But I don't think he's actually practiced the Unforgivable Curses. Maybe his dad, but not him."  
  
"What? I can't believe you actually think that!" Ron was getting very agitated. "This is _Malfoy,_ Harry. He'd throw a drowning man both ends of the rope, what isn't he capable of? And he probably knows all about how Imperius feels because he's seen his father use it on people so many times before."  
  
"Well, I do think Malfoy's _capable_ of it," Hermione said slowly, "but I can't say for sure if I think he's actually done it, before. It's not easy to learn to cast Imperius, you know — it's not just a simple wave of the wand, it requires advanced magical training."  
  
Ron looked mutinous. "The day my dad finds enough evidence to get a search warrant for Malfoy Mansion," he said in a fierce, ominous tone, grinding his right fist in his other palm, "we'll finally expose the whole rotten family for what they really are, and then Lucius Malfoy can spend the rest of his Galleons refurbishing his cell in Azkaban."   
  
Hermione patted Ron comfortingly on the shoulder. "Take it easy, Ron, no need to get all worked up."  
  
They settled down as Lupin started talking about the Ministry regulations regarding the prohibited use of Imperius. There was a shuffle of parchments and the scratching of quills as everyone started jotting down notes. Harry twirled his quill absently between his fingers, his mind straying from Lupin's voice...  
  
He threw a furtive look in Draco's direction; the other boy was looking down at a parchment laid before him, as if deep in concentration. His quill was poised in his hand, but he hadn't written down a single word the whole time. Harry watched him, slipping into his own questioning thoughts, only starting to contemplate the potential seriousness of the situation.   
  
There was something about the essay that Malfoy wrote — it possessed a certain underlying strain that ran parallel to the covert plea and veiled urgency in Draco's voice the last time they'd spoken, in the trophy room. Ron was right; it was as if Draco was speaking from experience, although as Harry had then pointed out, it was from the receiving end of the spell. A sympathy inside him twinged feebly, not quite guilt, but still—  
  
"_Harry!_" came Hermione's voice in a low hiss, next to him.  
  
Harry snapped out of his reverie with a jolt, and blinked; he saw a few curious heads turn in his direction, and Professor Lupin was looking at him with an expectant expression on his face. He blinked again, confused; he hadn't been paying attention to a word of what Lupin had been saying...  
  
"He asked who's been able to fight off the Imperius Curse before," Hermione swiftly came to his aid, muttering from the corner of her mouth without moving her lips, a skill she'd perfected from sitting next to Neville in Potions.  
  
"Oh! Um, yes sir, uh, me," Harry said hastily, giving Lupin an apologetic sort of grin. "I have, uh, a couple of times before."  
  
If Lupin had noticed his inattention, which Harry was sure he had, he let it pass without comment, and proceeded to ask, "Will you describe for us, then, how it felt when the Curse was on you, and how you managed to fight it off?"  
  
Harry got to his feet, and thought for a moment, feeling mildly uncomfortable as everyone turned to look at him.   
  
"Well," he began slowly, "It felt... it felt like every weight on my body was cast aside, and I was floating — as if my mind was wiped blank, just one single voice telling me what to do, and everything was pure and simple, but it actually felt so clear because it was all empty..." Harry broke off, and shook his head. "It's really hard to describe."  
  
Lupin nodded encouragingly. "I understand what you're trying to say, Harry. It was so uncomplicated in your mind, because the spell suppressed your ability to think for yourself, to make your own choices. So how did you repel it?"  
  
"I just said no," Harry answered truthfully. "I just tried to keep conscious thoughts flowing, _my _own thoughts, over and over again in my mind I just refused to listen to that voice, even though it seemed to be the only thing I could hear. I just kept pushing it away, and gradually it was easier to block it out of my head."  
  
Draco listened intently as Harry talked; he didn't look up, but every word that Harry spoke crashed like rolling thunder in his mind, echoing with soundless meaning, like a bullet to his head. It struck up a certain ray of hope, but at the same time showered torrents of despair. _That's what I need to do to get past this. But I've tried, and I just can't do it. I can't stop thinking. Thinking of him._  
  
"Thank you, Harry," Lupin smiled and gestured for Harry to sit down. He turned to the rest of the class. "Harry has just told you his method of fighting Imperius — there are other ways of getting around it, unique to each individual, so you all have to find the method that serves you best."   
  
Lupin's expression sobered. "The Imperius Curse is by far the least lethal of the three — Cruciatus renders you incapable of bodily control, and there is no way to repel the pain. Avada Kedavra has no counterspell and is irreversible. Since Imperius is the only one of the Curses that can be consciously resisted, it is imperative all of you learn to fight it to at least a certain degree."  
  
At this Neville Longbottom swallowed audibly, and gave Hermione an alarmed look.  
  
Lupin's blue-grey eyes swept over the entire class, all of whom were listening with rapt attention. "I understand from the Headmaster that some of you in this class have been subjected to the Imperius Curse during a class demonstration a couple of years back." Some students nodded.   
  
"I will be conducting an in-class presentation of the Imperius Curse today, to give you students a feel of what Imperius is like, so that you can be better prepared to fight it, if the need arises in the future." Lupin paused, and held up an official-looking piece of parchment for the class to see. "This is a Ministry certificate permitting me to use the Imperius Curse in a limited capacity for today's practical lesson."  
  
Lupin glanced at the students, his eyes showing concern. "I want you all to know that the extent of Imperius that you will be subjected to will not harm you in any way. I know some of you may have bad memories of the last time you underwent the Imperius Curse in class — but that was a completely unauthorised demonstration, without prior approval from the Ministry or the Headmaster. You can be rest assured that Professor Dumbledore is fully aware of this particular practical session, and he has faith that you all are old enough to be able to handle more advanced magic now."  
  
Hermione looked excited, for some reason Harry couldn't quite fathom. Harry trusted Lupin wouldn't harm him with the Curse, but he wasn't overflowing with enthusiasm about the prospect of it, either. His sinister experience of the Imperius Curse at the hands of Voldemort was enough to last him for a long, long time.  
  
Everyone moved toward the front of the classroom with what could only be termed as guarded anticipation. They were all fairly eager to experiment with Imperius, since there didn't seem to be any pain involved, but the natural apprehension was still evident. Lupin was very patient and encouraging, and the students formed a line and waited for their turn.  
  
"Concentrate," Lupin would urge, as he carefully modulated the strength of the spell respective to each student. "Pay attention to your _own_ thoughts, keep focusing on them... no, no, try to ignore my voice in your head... _concentrate_..."  
  
At the end of the practical session, the only ones who were able to successfully fend off the Imperius Curse without any difficulty were Harry — and Draco. Hermione came fairly close, although she had to try five times before she managed, and got a splitting migraine for all her effort, thought that was overshadowed by her sense of accomplishment.  
  
Lupin smiled at Harry and Hermione, and nodded at Draco. "Well done, the three of you. As for the rest, I'm very happy to see that you all put in your best effort and I have to say, it's a good start. You can only get better at this, so with more experience and improved concentration, you'll all manage it eventually." He favoured everyone with an approving glance, before saying, "Class dismissed."  
  
"Did you _see_ that?" Ron muttered triumphantly to Harry as they filed back to their tables to pack up their things. "Malfoy could fight off the Curse! Now don't tell me you still don't believe he's had _tons_ of practice with Imperius already!"  
  
Hermione came up beside them, and overheard Ron's last statement.   
  
"Well," she pointed out diplomatically, "so could Harry and I. And _we_ don't have Dark Arts training."  
  
Ron gave her a look that said _Hey, back me up for a change, will you?,_ and argued, "But that's different! For both of you — Harry, he's born with some natural Evil Repellent in his blood or something. And you, Herm, you've got the brains and talent to perform just about any charm, curse or countercurse ever invented." At this, Hermione blushed. "But Malfoy? Have you ever seen him top any _other_ Defence Against the Dark Arts assignments?"  
  
Harry considered; Ron had a point. Malfoy had never excelled in this class before. He cast a suspicious glance at Draco, who had just finished packing his own scrolls and quills into his bag. Maybe Ron was right. Maybe Malfoy _did_ have more hands-on training in the Dark Arts than he was letting on. This was one more thing he needed to clear up with Malfoy.  
  
Harry made up his mind; he had to talk with Malfoy. Soon. _Now._  
  
Ron and Hermione were already heading out of the classroom; Harry hesitated, then saw Draco quietly leave the classroom through the door at the other end, which led in the direction of the Slytherin dungeons.   
  
"Hey!" Harry called out to Ron and Hermione, who both looked back. "I want to ask Lupin something about my essay. You two go ahead first, I'll see you at lunch?"  
  
Ron and Hermione acknowledged him, and disappeared out of the classroom. Harry lingered a few moments more to make sure that they'd really gone off, before making a bee-line for the other exit and hurrying along the corridor, which was virtually empty since only the Slytherins frequented this route and most had already gone before him.  
  
The corridors were quite dark, despite it being mid-day — it snaked in a general downward curve, with uneven stone steps causing ground level to dip at irregular intervals, slowing Harry down considerably because he constantly had to mind his step. He almost tripped twice, and was beginning to wonder how the hell Malfoy managed to get so much of a head-start in such a short time, when suddenly—  
  
"What do you want, Potter?"   
  
Harry started violently, and whirled to face the direction where the soft, sharp voice came from.  
  
Directly to his right was a narrow passageway he had barely noticed in his hurry to get past — it seemed to have been carved by nature into the high stone slabs on either side of it, and the steep walls were unpolished, still abraded and rough with sediment. It was dark and shadowed, borrowing the slanted light from the torches illuminating the main corridor.  
  
Draco Malfoy slowly shifted out of the darkness, seeming to materialise from the shadows. He wore a strange expression on his face, one that Harry hadn't seen before — almost wiped clean of emotion, yet tinted with a curious mix of anger and resignation. His eyes reflected the dim vermilion flame of the torches spaced along the wall, and he held Harry's gaze evenly.  
  
Harry recovered from his initial surprise. "How did you know I was following you?"  
  
"Who wouldn't?" Draco's mouth curled in a mild sneer. "With you stomping down the corridor like a crazed Erumpent, they'd hear you from the Great Hall."  
  
"Very funny, Malfoy."  
  
"I wasn't trying to be funny, Potter." Draco crossed his arms and glowered at Harry. "What the hell do you want? Just strolling — or should I say stampeding? — down the Slytherin side of town?"  
  
Harry moved a few steps forward, into the cramped passageway; where they were now standing, they were both obscured from sight, only partially visible from a narrow angle in the main corridor, and the semi-darkness cloaked them almost completely.  
  
But Harry could still see Draco clearly enough, the flitter of emotion that randomly crossed his delicate features caught in the flickering play of light across his pale face. They were standing about a foot apart, near enough to touch yet far enough to resist, tension stringing the short distance that lay between them.  
  
"We need to talk, Malfoy," said Harry firmly, without any preamble. "This isn't working."  
  
"Yes, I'm sure this is really hard for you," Draco's voice dripped with sarcasm. "You know, doing nothing and all — I completely understand how unbearable it can get."  
  
Harry ignored him; he was determined not to let Malfoy wind him up, and equally determined to get the answers that he came for.   
  
"Did you really mean it?" Harry demanded, "What you wrote in the essay?"  
  
A closed expression wiped the faltering emotion from Draco's face. "It's an essay, Potter. Not my secret diary."  
  
"Sounded real enough. Even Lupin was impressed with the accuracy of your description."  
  
Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "I could do with the decent grade for my term average."  
  
Harry wouldn't give it up, and pressed on. "You mentioned love potions, in connection with the Imperius Curse."  
  
"Yes, I did." Draco's voice was still perfectly neutral; he tilted his head slightly, giving Harry a sidelong look. "But it's up to you to draw whatever conclusions you want."  
  
Harry was exasperated. "Stop beating around the bush, Malfoy, and just give me a straight answer."  
  
"Was that an intended pun?" Draco raised an eyebrow in mock amusement, although his eyes showed no humour.   
  
Harry's eyes darkened with rising annoyance, but he didn't take the bait. "Have you found a way to get rid of the love spell, then?" he asked coolly. "Since you think you can handle it so well yourself."  
  
"It's none of your business," Draco snapped, glaring at Harry. "Why do you care anyway, Potter? Did you come and look for me just to gloat?"  
  
"So you still haven't figured a way out of it, have you." Harry couldn't keep the smugness out of his voice.  
  
"I didn't say that. I might have—" but Draco's voice lacked conviction, "But either way, it's not your concern, Potter. And I don't appreciate you stalking me in the hallways, either."  
  
Harry was getting very angry. "Will you _quit_ being so stubborn, Malfoy?" He matched Draco's glare. "What is wrong with you? Do you think you can just walk away from this, like nothing's happened?"  
  
Draco's face fell; his voice faltered imperceptibly. "I can." There was a meaningful pause. "Why can't you? If it means nothing to you."  
  
The simple question struck a chord with Harry, because it articulated what he had been subconsciously asking himself during the past few days, each time he cast thought to Malfoy's situation: _Why do you care?_   
  
"I _don't_ care," Harry found himself answering out loud, to his own silent question; in response, Draco's eyes shimmered briefly, the expression in them hardening. Harry drew a deep breath, and continued, "It doesn't mean anything to me, Malfoy, and the only reason this whole thing is bothering me is because it's _dangerous._ It's Dark magic and you haven't the faintest idea how to handle or control it, much less reverse it. And the longer you wait, the deeper you get sucked in, and I don't know how serious the consequences will be, although I assure you it's not going to be pleasant."  
  
Draco's lips parted slightly in genuine amazement, and he looked into Harry's eyes, where he saw earnest sincerity burning with simmering annoyance, and something inside him cracked under the immense pressure rising to the surface. He tried to say something, but the words seemed to choke up in his throat, now too constricted for speech.  
  
Harry saw Draco's expression alter, the liquid emotion that melted and flowed across his face, changing aloofness to desolation, scorn to helplessness. The nerve of sympathy within Harry twitched again, and when Draco didn't answer, he took the opportunity to probe further.   
  
Harry stepped closer to Draco, who didn't move away. He looked Draco straight in the eye, the sheer electricity crackling almost audibly between them, and asked in a low voice, "I want to know what's really going on, Malfoy."  
  
Draco closed his eyes as the fireworks exploded silver and green and red behind the blackness of closed lids, and the intensity was too much to bear, and he couldn't hold back any longer.   
  
He opened his eyes, and his answer to Harry's question dissolved away, inarticulated; Draco's hands reached forward out of their own volition, grasping Harry and pulling him sharply against his own body. The next thing he felt through the haze in his mind was the heated touch of Harry's mouth under his, and he was kissing Harry, and he finally knew completion.  
  
Harry stumbled as Draco advanced swiftly upon him, and his exclamation of surprise melted against Draco's lips, which almost roughly closed over his own; he blinked, startled, as for the second time in his life he tasted the contrary sweetness of his arch enemy. Draco's hands ran up the sides of his arms, holding him against the wall, the narrow corridor urging their bodies too close for comfort, yet it still felt strangely right.  
  
_What? What the heck!  
_  
Harry placed his hands firmly against Draco's chest and pushed him away, breaking their connection; Draco abruptly pulled back as well, the shock and realisation of what he'd just did swirling like metallic shards in his eyes, and his shoulders slumped in hopeless resignation as he stepped backwards, unsteadily.  
  
"This is what's going on." Draco whispered, and his voice quivered on the edges, breathless and anguished.   
  
An extended pause followed, and a web of confusion and bitterness and regret spun itself in the volumes of charged silence filling the narrow void between them. Harry was still slightly dazed, the lingering warmth on his mouth reminiscent of Malfoy's soft lips, and it took a few moments for him to collect his thoughts.  
  
"Nothing's changed, has it?" Harry's voice was quiet, carefully measured.  
  
Very softly. "No."  
  
They were still standing very close together, the confines of the breadth of the corridor forcing an almost unbearable proximity. Harry could feel the heat of Draco's body so near him, and the darkness accentuated the sense of feeling, Malfoy's presence seeming to flow all around him, embracing him with a distant, unreachable warmth. Just a kiss away, yet so far removed.  
  
Draco closed his eyes, shivering not only from the sudden cold that iced through his veins. Harry's subdued reaction to his kiss was more unnerving than he had ever expected — it was so quietly _intense_, slicing through the tension with its silent blade, rendering him more confused and lost and helpless than he could ever remember being.  
  
The silence started to freeze over, edged with awkwardness; Harry cleared his throat. "Malfoy—"  
  
"I can't." The brief words spilled from Draco's lips, twisted with a hidden plea.   
  
Harry looked up at him, meeting his gaze, mildly surprised at the raw, audible desperation in Draco's voice. He almost asked _You can't what?_, but bit back the words at the last moment, for that question would surely have halted Draco's tentative imploration, and he would have instantly seen the steely defences snap back into place.  
  
And so Harry said nothing, and just waited.  
  
Draco took a deep breath, the words catching briefly as he looked into eyes of startling green. "I can't," he said again, his voice wretched. "I can't do this. I can't do... anything."  
  
"What do you mean?" Harry asked softly, antagonism absent from his voice.   
  
"I mean, I can't do _anything._" Draco raked a hand through his blond hair, pushing a few wayward strands out of his eyes. "I can't think properly, and I can't find any way of reversing the spell. It's unbearable when you're not around, but I can't stand being with you, either."  
  
Harry grimaced slightly at Draco's last few words. "That's nice and tactful."  
  
Draco ignored him. "I mean it, Potter. I can't take this for much longer."   
  
Harry sobered, and watched Draco carefully. "So what do you want me to do, then?" A mean streak flared inside him, and caused him to add, "Or is the 'stay away from me' plan still in effect?"  
  
"Comic relief is not appreciated at this juncture, Potter." Draco looked agitated. "Haven't you got anything useful to say?"  
  
"Useful?" Harry half-snorted, shaking his head. "You mean, like _help?_ Because I distinctly recall you telling me in no uncertain terms that that's not something you want from me. Ever."  
  
Draco hesitated, unsure of what to say — the alternate clenching and relaxing of his fingers betrayed his nervousness. For once his natural way with witty words evaded him as a profusion of conflicting thoughts ran through his mind like a powerful surge of electric current.  
  
"I offered you my help the last time, Malfoy." Harry pointed out shortly, when Draco didn't answer. "You refused."  
  
"So what, it's off the table now?" Draco's eyes glinted with a tarnished defiance, dulled by more urgent desperation.   
  
"I'm not your slave, Malfoy." Harry said flatly. "You're not allowed to order me around according to your whims and fancies."  
  
"But you came to look for me." Draco's simple words were measured, almost shrewd.  
  
Exasperation and anger sparked in Harry once again. "And that means completely nothing! I told you before and I'll do it again — I didn't come here because I cared for you. I don't give a damn what you do with your life! But I draw the line when it gets _me_ involved, because I'd sooner die than touch Dark magic, so I want you to get this spell off and just— just leave me alone!"  
  
Harry's outburst was met with a stunned silence that reverberated down the corridor, echoes of emotions from both of them, too entwined to be distinguished.   
  
Finally, Draco said, very quietly, "Leave if you want to, then."   
  
"I don't want to _leave._" Harry's voice was edged with steel. "I want the reassurance that you'll fix this bloody mess so that we can both get on with our lives."  
  
Draco shrugged — not casually, but heavily. "I can't give you that promise."  
  
Harry shook his head obstinately. "That's not good enough for me, Malfoy."  
  
"Is _anything _ever good enough for you, Potter?" Draco exploded, anger sparking in his eyes. "_What do you want me to say?_ Will it make you happier if I told you that everything's fixed, so you can just walk away and pretend nothing's happened? Have you ever thought about how hard it is for _me?_ Or are you just worried about your precious innocent skin getting tainted by Dark magic?"  
  
"That's right!" Harry snapped back, unconsciously advancing a small step, closing the distance between him and Draco. "Just because you enjoy tinkering with horrible Dark potions gives you no right to drag me into this mess! And _don't—_" Harry saw Draco open his mouth to speak, "_Don't_ give me that crap about it having nothing to do with me! Because even if you move to Alaska it doesn't change the fact that I'm involved in this— this _love_ potion, and your denial isn't helping!"  
  
"You think I'm not trying?" Draco's voice cracked slightly with emotion, his eyes flashing with helpless frustration and unspoken agony. "I've been doing nothing but try, and I just _can't._ You're damn right that this is Dark magic, and it's in my _blood,_ Potter, running in my veins with every breath I take and it's _poison._ And there's nothing I can do, except maybe bleed myself dry, which is becoming a more viable option with every passing minute."  
  
"Don't be stupid, Malfoy," Harry hissed fiercely, although anxiety tinted his eyes a deeper shade of green, the colour of the jungle in the still of the night, a darkened meadow. He took a step forward, seizing Draco by the shoulders, feeling a reflexive tension flinch through the other boy's body, but he held firm. "Are you trying to make me feel guilty, threatening to kill yourself? Do you think I'm going to fall to my knees and plead with you to be rational?"  
  
Harry released his hold on Draco, shoving him away with ungentle force, and shifted his weight to his back foot, his gaze still burning on Draco. "Well think again, because the world doesn't revolve around you, Malfoy."  
  
"No." Draco's voice was toneless. "Right now, _my_ world revolves around _you_."  
  
"Oh, am I supposed to be flattered?"  
  
"Don't be," Draco said bitterly. "I'm hating every moment of it."  
  
Harry's expression hardened, tentative amicability turning to disgust; he opened his mouth to speak, but then seemed to think better of it, and just shook his head angrily. "Forget it. I should've known better than to expect any more from you than your stupid pride."  
  
Harry turned on his heel and strode toward the main corridor, in the direction where amber torchlight was slanting into the darkened passageway like a flaming shadow.   
  
No oaths, no swearing, unlike the last time. He just walked away.   
  
Draco shut his eyes, biting down on his lower lip. Arrogance and desperation warred inside him, and he knew that it was now, or never again—  
  
"Potter, wait."  
  
Harry stopped and looked back at Draco, more out of reflex than willingness. The flaming torches cast hazy shadows of light across Draco's face, outlining the weariness dulling his fine features, contrasted with the faint rose blush on Draco's pale cheeks, courtesy of the brief, torrid kiss.  
  
"Yes." Draco's voice was soft, defeated.  
  
"Yes? Yes what?"  
  
"I am. Asking you."  
  
Genuine surprise lit Harry's eyes, and they glinted warm jade in the darkness. Draco held his breath, waiting — he wondered if Harry was going to milk this moment of triumph for all it was worth, revelling in his humbled acknowledgement, because at the back of his own mind Draco knew that it was exactly what _he _would have done, in the same position. He brace himself for the biting, sarcastic words he was almost certain would ensue, the moment of victory that Harry had hard won.  
  
Harry gave Draco a searching look, trying to decipher his intentions; his eyes met Draco's, and for the briefest moment something between them connected, something akin to understanding, and all of a sudden the natural hostility and chemical anguish between them wilted for a fleeting second, laying bare relentless confusion and raw truth.  
  
Then Draco blinked, and looked away, and the moment died like a smouldering flame touching water, but to Harry it was enough, enough at least to warrant a second chance. It was even more poignant than a glimpse into the past, or even the future, because lived _now,_ in the present, and it was a reason to believe.  
  
"What do you want me to do?" Harry asked quietly, no reproach in his voice, and with this unobtrusive question he allowed the golden opportunity to slip, surrendering revenge to a stronger emotion stirring within him — sympathy.   
  
Draco looked relieved; the tension in his features seemed to relax ever so slightly, and his body struck a more comfortable posture leaning up against the wall, and his lips curled in the smallest of smiles — almost grateful, in Harry's opinion. But his body language was about all that Draco permitted to reveal his inner feelings; when he spoke again, his voice was calm and even, although lacking his usual arrogance.  
  
Just as Draco opened his mouth to speak, the sound of distant voices floated from the outside corridor; he quickly glanced around, anxiety darting in his eyes. "Damn — someone's coming." He turned back to Harry, urgency in his voice. "Listen, I have to go now, I'll talk to you again later."  
  
Harry swore inwardly at the untimely interruption; there were still so many things he had yet to ask Draco. "Malfoy, I want to know—"  
  
"I'll get in touch." Draco repeated, curtly cutting him off with a brief shake of his head, although his expression was torn between wanting to stay and needing to go. A liquid emotion seemed to rise on his face, softening the intrinsic pain knotted in his features; Draco took a step closer to Harry, closing whatever remained of the short distance between them.  
  
Harry stiffened and drew back slightly, wondering if Malfoy was going to kiss him again — but instead, Draco simply raised his right hand, and brushed his fingers ever so lightly against Harry's left cheek; the softest stroke like a phoenix's feather, so brief that had Harry blinked, he would have missed the movement, though by no means the sensation on his skin, mingled warmth and cold on a single touch.   
  
Very quickly Draco let his hand drop to his side again; a momentarily embarrassed look flitted across his face, before he turned away without a further word and slinked out of the dense shadows back into the main corridor, his movements silent and graceful, and he was gone.  
  
Harry stared after Draco, not moving, his back still leaning against the wall of the narrow passageway. Flickering torchlight was all that remained where Malfoy had stood, and Harry couldn't help thinking of the way it had lit amber sparks in Draco's storm-grey eyes. And he thought about the way Draco had touched his face, even for that fleeting breath of a second, the startling tenderness in his manner both incongruous and consonant at the same time.  
  
_Congratulations,_ Harry thought to himself, shaking his head with grim dismay. _You are now officially barking mad. *And* you let Malfoy kiss you again. What the hell was that about?_  
  
_But he needs your help._ Another voice spoke out, definitely not the voice of reason, but not quite the scruples of conscience, more like... empathy? Not really that, either — but whatever it was, whichever source deep within him it stemmed from, it firmly told him that walking away from Malfoy's predicament was not an option. Not now, at least, not when Malfoy had finally found the humility to ask for his help. It just wouldn't be right.   
  
Harry sighed, pushing himself away from the wall and making his way out into the main corridor, tracing his steps back where he came, past the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom (now empty) en route to the Great Hall, where from the looks of it, lunch had already commenced. He'd apparently been talking to Malfoy for longer than he'd imagined.  
  
"Hey, where've you been?" Ron asked through a mouthful of mashed potatoes as Harry slid into a chair next to him, eyeing the food but not feeling very hungry.   
  
Harry cast an instinctive glance across the Great Hall, at the Slytherin table, immediately noticing the conspicuously empty place where Malfoy always sat. "Oh, nothing. Just had some things I needed to clear up."  
  
"Hey, Harry!" Seamus called from across the table. "Got some news for you — the Gryffindor-Slytherin match will be pushed forward from a fortnight away to next week instead. They want to do some patching up of the grass surfacing on the pitch in the week after next. No problems with that, I hope?"  
  
Harry was Quidditch captain and Seeker for Gryffindor ever since their fifth year, when the annual Quidditch Cup had resumed after the Triwizard fiasco. He'd led Gryffindor to consecutive victories for the past two years running, chalking up an admirable winning streak ever since he joined the team in his first year at Hogwarts.  
  
Harry pondered for a moment, then shrugged, still rather distracted. "Should be all right. We've been practicing hard for the past few weeks, anyway."  
  
Seamus nodded. "That's cool, then. I'll just let Malfoy know about the rescheduling."  
  
_Malfoy, _Harry realised with a jolt.   
  
Malfoy was his counterpart on the Slytherin team — captain and Seeker as well. The handful of times they'd faced each other on the Quidditch pitch, Harry had come off victorious with the Snitch and the match. It had altogether slipped his mind that he'd be going up against Malfoy in the next match, which had now even been brought forward.   
  
Harry usually took to the chance of meeting Slytherin with no small measure of glee, but this time, a cloud of doubt nagged at the back of his mind. Somehow, it didn't seem... _fair _to Malfoy, to have to compete under the circumstances he was in. But there wasn't anything Harry could do about it, anyway. The fixing of the Quidditch schedule was out of his jurisdiction, and since Madam Hooch had already authorised the switch of match date, probably even Seamus couldn't change it.  
  
Unless, of course, Malfoy could get rid of the spell before next Wednesday morning, which would bring them back to status quo and put them on equal footing again. Although it still would never quite be the same as before.   
  
Harry was subdued throughout the course of lunch, although his unusual quietness went unnoticed as the others chatted animatedly about Quidditch strategy, catalysed by the advancement of the next match. Ron and Seamus dominated the conversation with a thesis-length analysis of the offensive approach the Gryffindor team was adopting, whereby the Beaters would push upfield alongside the Chasers, working in attack more than defence. It was a risky strategy, because more often than not it would leave the Keeper solely in charge of defending the Gryffindor goal, but Harry had been confident that the advantages far outweighed the risks.  
  
Harry watched absently as Ron and Seamus started taking out Bertie Botts Every-Flavour Beans and using them to represent the various Quidditch positions, poking them around with their wands to simulate their game plan. Ron was the unofficial Quidditch strategy consultant for the team; Seamus had taken over commentating duties from Lee Jordan, who had graduated along with the Weasley twins, and promised to be just as unbiased as his predecessor.  
  
Harry had no idea what he was supposed to do to help Malfoy. He hadn't even the faintest idea what the love potion had been made of, Potions never having been his forte. And although there were clear parallels between love potions and the Imperius Curse, it would be presumptuous to assume they were identical in nature and properties. So basically, maybe Malfoy was right after all — he couldn't really be of much help.  
  
Harry was barely listening as Ron and Seamus pronounced themselves satisfied with the strategy at the end of lunch, whooped in triumphant anticipation, and began eating up the Every-Flavour Beans, making an exaggerated show of chomping to bits the ones representing the Slytherin team players. He was still deep in thought as they all left the table and headed back to the Gryffindor common room.  
  
It was appalling how little he actually knew about the machinations of love spells and potions, considering their notoriety even among Muggles. This wouldn't do. There was simply too much reading up he had to do, with too little time and too many other commitments, like homework and Quidditch practice.  
  
He could get ask someone who could offer some useful advice on love potions. But Snape would sooner share the secrets of love potion-making with Gilderoy Lockhart than answer any questions Harry might have about them, so no help seemed forthcoming from that avenue. And Lupin... Harry didn't really relish the thought of explaining the whole situation to Lupin just to hear that there was nothing in _his_ capacity he could do about it, which was a very likely answer he'd receive.  
  
But of course, he could just ask—  
  
"Hermione!" Harry called, quickening his pace to fall into step with Hermione. "Can I talk to you for a bit?"  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
"Malfoy made a _love potion?_ And _took_ it?"  
  
Hermione's eyes were wide as saucers, her eyebrows were raised; incredulity chased across her face, and her expression very quickly changed to one of scepticism. "He's pulling a fast one on you, Harry. Love potions are illegal — they're banned by the Ministry!"  
  
"Look who we're talking about here, Hermione," Harry pointed out logically. "Malfoy. His father probably owns the most comprehensive Dark Arts library in the whole of England. Maybe even Europe. If Malfoy wanted to find out how to make a love potion, probably all he had to do was snap his fingers."  
  
Hermione shook her head, still incredulous. "And what did you say it had to do with you, again?"  
  
Harry found himself blushing. "How do I put this…?" he trailed off, then tried, "How about fate had it that we were both at the wrong place at the wrong time, and it turned out that..."  
  
Hermione was horrified. "_You _took the love potion?"  
  
"No!" Harry shook his head vigorously. "I didn't _take_ it. I'm the... the _object_ of it."  
  
Hermione's jaw dropped — she was speechless for a moment as the truth sank in. She stared at Harry in utter disbelief, and when she finally spoke, her voice was flat, as if she could scarcely believe the words she was speaking.   
  
"Malfoy... Malfoy's in _love_ with you?" she said slowly, eyeing Harry dubiously. "I hope I'm hearing you wrongly."  
  
Harry smiled wanly. "I wish you were, too."  
  
They were sitting by the fireplace of the Gryffindor common room, side by side, leaning against a big fluffy pile of cushions they had arranged against the wall. The fireplace was lit even though it was in the afternoon, to keep out the chilly wintry frost outside.   
  
Ron had hastily rushed off to the Divination classroom to finish a piece of already-late homework that he had completely forgotten about, leaving Harry a perfect opportunity to talk to Hermione about the matter weighing heavily on his mind.  
  
Hermione still looked appalled, but had gotten her composure back enough to ask, "What happened, exactly?"  
  
With a tired sigh, Harry recounted everything that had transpired since that fateful night when he had made the dismal decision to take a walk along the Forest. He told her how he had met Malfoy there, and the dizzying whirlwind of events thereafter which had spun completely out of control.  
  
When he finally finished, Hermione crinkled up her nose, although Harry couldn't quite tell if she was amused or scandalised. "Malfoy _kissed_ you?"  
  
Harry felt the mild heat flush on his cheeks again, and he bit his lower lip. "It was only twice."  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, _only_ twice. Coincidences always come in doubles." But her expression quickly sobered, and there was a frown on her face when she turned to Harry. "But seriously, do you actually believe it? What Malfoy says?"  
  
Harry nodded his head slowly, though he looked pensive. "You should have seen him, Hermione. You know how Malfoy is — well, basically an obnoxious creep. But I've never seen him like that before, those times when I talked to him — he was still unreasonable and all, but he wasn't arrogant and snobbish. He almost sounded... desperate. Like this was _really_ serious."  
  
Hermione still looked highly sceptical. "But it's _Malfoy_, Harry. Since when do you believe anything he says, ever? I mean, he's made it quite his full-time goal to get us into trouble at every opportunity he can. Remember the incident with Norbert? And how he tried to sabotage you in the third year, dressing up as a Dementor just to wreck your game? I could go on in this thread forever but I think you see my point."  
  
Harry tilted his head contemplatively. "I do, Hermione. But— but it's just... different, this time. I just don't think he's faking it. It's too believable to be untrue... if that makes any sense," he added hurriedly, off Hermione's quizzical expression. "Look, I know this sounds really strange and bizarre and yes, it's _Malfoy,_ who can lie as naturally as other people breathe, but... but I just get the feeling he's telling the truth this time."  
  
"Agreed on the strange and bizarre," Hermione gave Harry a pointed, searching look. "What's gotten into you, Harry? I never imagined in my life that I'd ever see you so— so _sympathetic_ towards Malfoy. Not after everything he's done to us! How do you know this isn't just an elaborate plot to get you into royally huge trouble?"  
  
Harry paused for a moment, and considered. "I don't know. I just— _feel_ it, that he's not lying this time."  
  
"But you can't stake everything on a gut feeling, Harry!" Hermione argued.   
  
"Sometimes you can," Harry replied quietly, shifting himself slightly to look at Hermione. "Remember that night in the Shrieking Shack, with Sirius and Wormtail? We thought that Sirius was a cold-blooded murderer back then, and I thought he was the one who murdered my parents. But when he talked to me, there was just _something_ in his eyes that made me stop and think and believe what he was trying to tell me. Imagine if I hadn't trusted that feeling—" Harry's voice faltered at the thought of it, "I'd have killed him when I had the chance, I'd have killed my parents' best friend, who was _innocent._"  
  
"That's different, Harry," Hermione objected impatiently, "Sirius never tried to hurt you — the same can't be said of Malfoy!"  
  
"That's not altogether true," Harry pointed out reasonably. "Remember, before that everyone thought Sirius was all out to kill me, and he almost slashed Ron to bits, albeit accidentally."  
  
"Ever since we've known him, Malfoy has repeatedly shown himself disposed for nothing good, with a special penchant for trying to land us in hot soup." Hermione said firmly, then paused. "And Sirius is different — he had Wormtail to prove his innocence, and the fact that Pettigrew had been masquerading as Scabbers all those years was incriminating enough. What has Malfoy got to show for his claim? Has he even given you any concrete evidence that this whole love potion thing isn't just conjured from being high on drugs?"  
  
Harry gave serious thought to Hermione's words. It was true — Malfoy never really offered any solid proof of the situation really being what he claimed it to be... except for his words, and his eyes, which spoke with more eloquent truth than Harry had ever imagined could be possible, from anyone.  
  
"Nothing," Harry admitted. "He hasn't shown me any evidence, except for... well, himself. But why would he, you know—" he hesitated briefly, "uh, kiss me, not once but _twice_, if it was just to lay a trap? Isn't he afraid that I'll go around school telling tales about him?"  
  
Hermione shook her head firmly. "That's just not good enough, Harry." She turned to face him squarely. "Look, I don't know what in the world you saw in Malfoy that's making you even _begin_ to believe him, but I still think it's too dodgy for you to get involved, not without some evidence that he's really telling the truth. It's not worth the risk, Harry, not for Malfoy."  
  
Harry levelled Hermione's gaze, and said simply, "You think he's lying?"  
  
Hermione looked thoughtful. "I don't trust him, Harry. And I don't think you should, either."  
  
"So do you think I should just walk away from this?" Harry asked quietly.  
  
The reflexive answer _Yes! Why are you even giving thought to this? _was instantly on the tip of her tongue, but Hermione bit it back at the last moment. She looked carefully at Harry, and to her surprise, noticed the expression on his face — hopeful and confused. It was almost as if he was waiting for her to rekindle that tentative spark of uncertainty, that inexplicable inclination of his to give Malfoy a chance.  
  
Hermione sighed. _Either Malfoy deserves a Golden Crystal Ball for his acting skills, or Harry's really lost it. _   
  
But at the back of her mind, she knew that if anyone had intuitive skills enough to stake everything on, it was Harry. He was incisively perceptive like no one else Hermione knew, and he had a way of seeing an entirely deeper realm of a situation, beyond academic logic and all practical sense.  
  
She didn't believe a shred of Malfoy's story. But for some reason, to crush that smouldering wick of belief that Harry had in Malfoy just seemed brutal, especially since it was so rare, even though it was entirely contrary to all laws of sanity. And a chance wouldn't hurt... everyone deserved a second chance, at least once in their lifetime. Even someone as horrid as Malfoy.  
  
"Ask him to produce something to show for it," she finally said, carefully weighing her words and wondering what Ron would say if he found out that not only hadn't she promptly told Harry to sod Malfoy, but was now actually telling him to find out more before passing judgement.  
  
But Harry believed Malfoy. Hermione could see it in his eyes, in the layers of confusion woven in his soft voice. And she had no right to take it away from him.  
  
"Are you going to talk to him again?" she asked instead.  
  
"I guess so." Harry shrugged. "I don't know when, though. He said he'd be in touch."  
  
"Gawd." Hermione rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "You two are starting to sound like pen pals! This is becoming disturbing on a level I never knew existed."  
  
Harry actually cracked a wry smile. "Believe me, I never intended for anything like this to happen. Chalk it up to entirely bad luck. Atonement for every sin of my past, present and future life."  
  
Hermione's smile quickly faded, and she sobered, leaning forward earnestly. "But I'm serious, Harry. Don't do anything stupid for Malfoy, not until you're completely sure this whole love potion thing isn't a gigantic hoax." She paused, then added, "And don't be too shaken if it turns out that way."  
  
Harry gave a crooked grin. "Yeah, well, it's Malfoy, what do we expect?"  
  
But Hermione could hear the lack of conviction, the persistent indecision in his voice. She took Harry's hand in hers, and squeezed it. "Don't get me wrong, Harry. Believing in people is a good thing — but it can also be very dangerous."  
  
Harry squeezed her hand back. "I know. Don't worry, I won't do anything rash or stupid. And you're right, Hermione — Malfoy's done absolutely nothing to deserve my trust." Harry paused, a mixed expression crossing his face, and he added thoughtfully, "Don't you think it's ironic, how sometimes the purest qualities can turn around and stab you in the back? Feelings like trust, and faith, and love — they can slice either way, like two-edged swords."  
  
Hermione gave Harry a sidelong glance; it was at times like this, with flashes of pensive thoughtfulness and almost endearing idealism, that reminded her how much she appreciated Harry for his depth of character and inherent affinity for virtue, which defined him as so uniquely special.  
  
"I think you shouldn't do anything until you get some factual proof out of Malfoy. I still have very strong reservations about him, and it's going to take more than just a love potion story to change that." She got to her feet, and gave him an encouraging sort of smile. "It's a rare thing, Harry, to be able to have faith in other people — just be careful who you give it to."  
  
Hermione had to go and see McGonagall about taking a supplementary Transfiguration paper in her NEWTs later in the school year, and so Harry was left sitting by himself in front of the fireplace, brooding over his troubled thoughts, wearing a melancholy expression that suited the atmosphere very well, around and inside of him.   
  
Hermione was right. He couldn't allow himself to trust Malfoy so easily. It made him too vulnerable. He thought about what he'd told Hermione: _Malfoy's done absolutely nothing to deserve my trust._  
  
Harry sighed. _Which makes it all the more impossible to explain why I do._  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Draco didn't go down to the Great Hall for lunch that day; he spent the afternoon lying flat on his bed, ignoring the pangs of hunger that stirred in his stomach. He'd already been losing weight recently, although he didn't know if it was attributable to his irregular eating habits, his non-existent sleep pattern, or a slimming side effect of the potion that he didn't know about. Probably a little bit of each, topped off with a generous helping of stress about everything that had been happening.  
  
He thought about his conversation with Harry en route to the Slytherin dormitories — the memory of it was still vivid in his mind, the shadowed atmosphere of the obscured passageway darkly romantic, sinisterly enticing, exactly the way Harry had been to him at that moment. Which was why Draco hadn't been able to restrain himself from stepping forward and kissing him.  
  
The thought of the kiss evoked both anger and satisfaction within him — it had been such an infinitely fulfilling sensation, when he pressed his lips to Harry's, as if it suddenly didn't matter if everything else around them crumbled and fell away, that the kiss alone was enough to sustain him. It was so bitterly wrong, yet it tasted so heavenly and right.  
  
And it made Draco see that there wasn't a way out of this that wouldn't involve Harry, and although he had known this before, deep inside, denied and unheeded, it took the intensity of his kissing Harry to make him realise, understand, and accept.   
  
So he had asked. It had been the hardest thing for him to do, but somehow desperation and fear got the better of him and forced the words out of his reluctant lips. And to his utter surprise, Harry had agreed, without any pompous fuss or malicious gloating. That touched a deepest nerve within him the way nothing else had ever done.  
  
Maybe he had been wrong about Harry, all along. Maybe Harry had genuinely wanted to help him, as much as that seemed inconceivable, because Draco knew that he'd never have done such a thing had the situation been reversed. But, he reminded himself once again, Harry wasn't like him. _This _was what defined him as uniquely Harry, his trademark benevolence that seemed to come so naturally to him, which Draco had always scorned and sneered at. He never imagined he'd ever be able to appreciate this quality in Harry, until now.  
  
Draco sat up in bed, reached for a sheet of parchment on his bedside table, and picked up his quill, the tip of it still moist with ink from a useful Self-Inking Charm he'd come across while extensively reading up. He set the nib against the creamy white paper, and wrote,  
  
  
_Meet me in the disused storage room on the fifth floor of the Astronomy Tower, after your Quidditch practice tonight.   
_  
  
A tentative glimmer of hopefulness rose within him as he folded the note into a neat square and slipped it into his pocket, intending to bring it down to the Owlery to have it delivered. The image of Harry once again flashed in Draco's mind, in particular that genuinely stunned expression he wore when Draco had touched him fleetingly, before they parted ways; and the memory lifted the bleak haze for a shimmer of a moment, and that was enough.  
  
Perhaps Harry held the answers he had been searching too hard to find, and perhaps with Harry's help, things could finally slide back into place, and this horrible tangle of confusion would just disappear like a mist of morning dew at the break of the sunlight.  
  
Draco leaned back onto the pillows, and closed his eyes, a faint silver light streaming behind his eyelids.  
  
Perhaps he would be able to find a way out of this, after all.  
  
Perhaps.   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
Will Harry trust Draco against his better judgement, or will Draco betray his fledgling confidence? Now that Hermione's in on the secret, what will she do? More on this in the next chapter!  
  
  
*grumbles* Also, ff.net is not liking this story very much... It just kicked IP off the favourite's page of about 40 of you who had it on. *frowns* bugger.   
  
  
^ ^ ^ ^ ^   
  
_~the thanks section..._  
  
  
As always, Minx and Heidi for betaing.   
  
Cassandra Claire (love you to bits, girl, you know that *g*), Emily/MC (my no-longer-anonymous reviewer! Still loving your reviews, though), Elani Kera (longest reviewer award to you! *applauds*), Luckfire (your review made me smile - thanks), Bec (anxiously awaiting a slut!Seamus from you... c'mon!), Viola (hugs to you, don't let real life get you down), Keieru (sorry I took so long to beta your story), starling (yay! You're reading IP too! *delighted*), Gwendolyn Grace (where's the next part of ABJ, girl?!), J. L. Matthews (like Draco suffering? alas, don't we all), wingedkeys (lovely review via email, too!), Gileonnen (glad you're back on the review roll! *g*), Arcina (oh, such a wonderful review once again. Our Draco, bondage fetish? definitely!), Karina (yes, poor Draco. I must start bullying Harry for a change!), Eloria (more proper snogging this time, eh?), nortylaK (tada! As usual, flattered that you love my stuff so much. *hugs Jess*), Flourish (hurrah! you reviewed! *glomps*), Moriel (Draco never does lose his mean edge, does he? Tis why we love him!), RatheraMutemwiya (thanks for the continued support), Mali (so very true, sometimes life does imitate art/writing), Paula Knight (thanks for the email!), Geneveive (glad you appreciate the humour *g*), Melissa (who *just* emailed me an hour before I posted this!)   
  
Arabella, Angela Graham (yes you're welcome to post my fic on your website), Amanita Lestrange, Swythangel, Portia, Firebolt909, Hillary Bean (glad you're on the IP bandwagon!), princess_katrina, delentye, Godess Death (ooh, any fanart is more than welcome!) Aura*Potter, Draco Skywalker, Ayanami R, Am, HannahB, Katy White, Wills, Subaru, Claire L., Plumeria, Kix, Juniper, iamtheanonymous, abby, Warui Nekochan, Allison, Michi Chu, Draco Serpens, The Water Warrior, Otaku_Neev, keodo, Noir, Raven Mars, Di-chan, Hedgehog, Nataku's Child, Lady Neptune, Silferfox, Catriona Snape, Miss Cassadine, ~*Fluff*~, Adelina, Ariel, Lyddie, GentleWaterSoul, Chickadee Jannete, Gracias, nuriko, sakura, Unicorn Chick, Tazy Silverpen, Miss Lisa Jade, Raggona and Hotaru, Knowing Shadows, LunarBard, hermioneatkcom, guen.   
  
  
^ ^ ^ ^ ^   
  
Again, please review! :)   
  
---  
  


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	6. Missing Completion

Irresistible Poison, Chapter 6: Missing Completion, by Rhysenn

  
**Irresistible Poison   
Chapter Six: Missing Completion**  
  
  
_You're incomplete until you're in love; then you're finished. _  
  
  
Harry showed the creased note to Hermione during dinner, unfolding it surreptitiously under the table and sliding it over to her. Hermione took it and discreetly read it, then passed it back to Harry, all the while without a change of expression.   
  
"So, are you going to meet him?" Hermione asked in a low voice, so quietly that only Harry could hear her. She needn't have worried, though, since the scattered dinner conversation was noisy enough to drown out anything less than audible speech.   
  
Harry nodded once, shoving the note back into his pocket. "I'll bring my wand along, just in case."  
  
Hermione wasn't surprised at Harry's answer; somehow, even before he'd said anything, she already knew. In fact, even before Harry even showed her the note, she knew that should Malfoy ask Harry to meet again in private, Harry would agree. What still baffled her, however, was that Harry was actually entertaining the issue, instead of dismissing it with a wave of his hand as nothing more than the preposterous rubbish that Malfoy was so adept at throwing in their direction. Hermione's eyes narrowed; she was beginning to wonder if Malfoy had put Harry under the Imperius Curse.  
  
"Are you feeling all right, Harry?" Her anxious concern showed in her voice. "You're acting really strangely about this whole thing, and you've got me worried. Are you sure Malfoy didn't put a spell on you, instead of the other way around?"  
  
"No, he didn't hex me." Harry shook his head. _Unless you count the sorcery of lips._ "Besides, I can fight off the Imperius Curse, and he's not experienced enough to manage anything more advanced than that. I doubt he can even cast Imperius — not yet."  
  
"I still have a bad feeling about this, Harry," Hermione warned, giving voice to her niggling doubts. "I wouldn't trust Malfoy to trim Crookshanks' claws, and that's a task that I would gladly hand over to almost anyone willing to be scratched half to death."  
  
"I'll be careful," Harry promised.   
  
Hermione took one look in his eyes and gave up trying to discourage him — there wasn't any use, since it was clear that Harry had already made up his mind, and probably no matter what she said short of threatening to tell Ron or Dumbledore about the whole deal, Harry would be there in the disused storage room later that night.  
  
To quell her own uneasiness, Hermione decided to make sure that Harry wasn't being subjected to some dark curse Malfoy put on him, which denied him of conscious control over his actions. She knew a useful Dark-Sensing Spell, which could gauge if a person was under the influence of any sort of dark magical charm or spell and return either a positive or negative result.   
  
When Harry was leaning over to talk to Seamus about the match-day arrangements for the Gryffindor-Slytherin clash, Hermione took out her wand and furtively passed it down the length of Harry's body, whispering the Sensing Spell under her breath, carefully watching for the result.  
  
The tip of her wand glowed a pearly white, then faded to a dull green, which signalled affirmatively that everything was fine and nothing was amiss. Harry was spell-free — that was a relief, to some extent, though not quite a consolation. The question that still begged answering was, _Why?_   
  
Hermione thought for a moment, then decided it was pointless to ask Harry about it now — firstly, he was clearly adamant about going to meet Malfoy that night; and secondly, she somehow had a feeling that even Harry didn't know the answer to that question.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
As the late afternoon sun blazed in all its glory across the sky, a rare burst of colour in the spell of bleak, wintry weather in the past days and weeks, Harry headed back to the Gryffindor dormitory to gather his things for Quidditch practice that evening. The schedule was even tighter now that the crucial game had been pushed forward — his team, although more than a worthy match for the Slytherins, needed all the practice they could squeeze in time for.  
  
Slytherin had a strong defence, Harry noted as he took a clean set of Quidditch robes out of his drawer. That was their asset, which was all the more reason for him to throw everything they had into attack. Granted, the victory hinged more heavily on his ability to catch the Snitch and end the game, but Harry had never been one to play on the back foot.   
  
Based on past matches, Harry's chances of catching the Snitch were good, almost certain if percentages and ratios were all there was to it. To date, he had faced off against Malfoy in a total of four Quidditch games, each season since their second year, and Harry had caught the Snitch every single time. He remembered the intoxication of victory, the sheer triumph each time his fingers closed over the fluttering speck of gold, each time he turned and saw Malfoy's face, the crestfallen expression twisted with anger, resentment, and unmistakable hatred.  
  
Harry's thoughts gradually strayed from plotting Quidditch strategy to evaluating Malfoy's flying talent — even though he was a much swifter, quicker flier than Malfoy was, Harry couldn't help grudgingly admitting that he liked the way Malfoy flew. In fact, he even secretly thought that Malfoy had a nicer flying style than himself. Harry had seen himself in flight on several occasions, either on replay mode on a pair of Omnioculars or in moving wizard photos, and he noticed that he seemed to _hurtle_ through the air, though with pinpoint accuracy — his body would be bent forward in perfect alignment with his broom, and he would cut through the air like a knife through soft butter, though with about as much sophistication as exactly that.  
  
Harry remembered the first time he saw Draco fly — back in the first year, when they were only eleven and still wide-eyed and innocent and childish, when Malfoy had stolen Neville's Remembrall and taken to forbidden flight on one of the school broomsticks. He, of course, had done the natural thing and had gone after Malfoy. And that moment had served to fuel an intense, bitter rivalry between them which had far from simmered, much less faded, even six years later.   
  
Still, Harry could recall how privately impressed he was as he sped after Malfoy, thinking _He wasn't lying, he could fly well_ — there was a certain arrogance and careless grace in the way Malfoy guided his broomstick through the whistling air, precise and elegant at the same time, and maybe Malfoy wasn't the world's _best_ flier, but he certainly flew with an altogether unique beauty and poise. Just like everything else about Malfoy, really. His encompassing ability to exude scorn and confidence so effortlessly, along with that enviable calm and refinement and stylishness which was so exclusively _Malfoy._   
  
And this all the more highlighted the brief flashes of raw emotion that flickered and waned in Draco's eyes like daytime lightning, because it fractured the composed veneer which Draco normally projected so flawlessly. It was like the hiss of thin ice on the verge of breaking, as the liquid truth beneath seeped through the spidery cracks — and it was unnerving, almost frightening to watch.  
  
Harry rummaged in his bedside drawer for a bar of Honeydukes chocolate to nibble on, since he would be missing dinner later — when suddenly, his fingers came into contact with the cool touch of hard glass, which clinked like hollow metal as it jostled against the other assorted contents of the drawer. Harry's fingers inquisitively closed over it, its shape familiar, and drew it out of the drawer.  
  
It was the empty glass vial.  
  
Harry stared at it for a moment, the glass cool against the palm of his hand. He had completely forgotten about its existence, more preoccupied with the effect of the love potion than the physical source which had contained it. Now he held it up for closer inspection, noticing the faint traces of vivid red still staining the interior surface of the closed vial, crimson testimony of a poison that ran deeper than blood.  
  
Or so Malfoy said. And so he had believed.  
  
Harry chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully, and after pondering a moment longer, he slipped the small glass vial into his pocket as he picked up his Quidditch things and exited the dormitory. There was no way for him to verify the nature of the mysterious residue, but it was about as tangible a piece of evidence as he had in possession, and he thought Hermione would find it very interesting, indeed.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Draco quietly left the Slytherin common room shortly before dinner, and made his way out of the main school building toward the Quidditch pitch in the distance. It looked so very different, when viewed from ground level across horizontal terrain, as compared to the spectacular bird's eye view afforded from the perspective of the skies above.   
  
When he flew, his surroundings would smudge and flow like a shaken palette, a canvas of natural abstract art painted all around him in a dazzle of brilliant colour, as he spun and turned over and over on his broomstick. The lush green pitch below would blend seamlessly with the blue sky above, one moment at his feet and the next, spinning overhead, and this almost dizzying spectrum of colour was what he found most beautiful, at times almost distractingly so, because it mirrored the exact way life was — never clear lines of black and white, instead varying shades of grey and every other colour of the rainbow.  
  
But as he approached the pitch, Draco was struck by how very different it looked from where he stood now — it was so... typical, and _grounded, _the landscape as if forged by gravity and not imagination. Which made perfect sense, since he was standing with both feet rooted on the earth, and the pitch really did look quite sad, almost pathetic, and it didn't help that the torrential winter rains were cutting deep ridges of erosion in the soil, which was why it badly needed resurfacing.  
  
But of course, he didn't come here to rue the state of the Quidditch pitch, although its sorry condition did tinge his mood with more bleakness. Truthfully, he wasn't really sure why he had come all the way down here, except that he knew Harry had Quidditch practice this evening.   
  
Draco selected a shaded spot partially obscured in the shadow of Gryffindor Tower looming over him, and settled down on the grassy ground, leaning against the warm concrete flagstones of the wall behind him. He was hidden from view by a sharp bend, although he still had a fairly unobstructed vision of the Quidditch pitch from where he sat.  
  
Harry was there, together with the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, all of them junior students, most of them sixth-years. Draco could see Harry talking to them, likely briefing them on the game strategy for the upcoming match. Harry gestured and pointed, giving directions to each player, who in turn nodded and sometimes appeared to ask a question back in clarification. Not long after, the small group dispersed and mounted their broomsticks, kicking off from the ground to the skies above.  
  
It was interesting to watch Harry fly from a perspective that wasn't on eye level with him, Draco mused to himself as his eyes followed Harry's swift progression from one end of the pitch to the other, doing his warm-up laps as he raced back and forth between the two hoops on either end of the field with amazing speed. Time and again, Draco envied Harry's sheer velocity on a broomstick, while being able to maintain precision and lightning-quick reflexes at the same time.   
  
Harry really knew how to _fly._ Not just be able to zip around on a broomstick and negotiate right-angled corners without falling off, but really _fly_ in the complete, truest sense of the word — as if he could shed the skin that gravity held sway over, as if the sky wasn't the limit but only the basis of so much more worth exploring. Even during matches, it occurred to Draco that Harry didn't seem like he was flying only to compete, but rather also for the pure love of it, and somehow the wind caught him and took him where his instincts led, as if catching the Snitch was only a minor satisfaction in the sheer pleasure of flying, just a shimmer of gold on a horizon that had no bounds.   
  
Of course, Draco could never fly like that. The weight of expectation and impossible standards clipped his wings of flight, leaving him trawling the realm of sky just below heaven, and no matter how he tried, he was always one space below Harry.  
  
Draco remembered the first time he had played against Harry in their second year, and had lost, the first of many subsequent failures. The humiliation of being defeated despite having a superior broomstick was still vivid, which had in turn shifted the bulk of the blame to his own capabilities instead. He remembered Marcus Flint yelling at him, saying _It was on top of your head and you couldn't bloody see it! You can't outshine Potter even with the best damn broom in the world!_   
  
And at that moment the spark of hatred which had ignited in their first encounter aboard the Hogwarts Express had erupted into seething scarlet flames that burned eternal, stoked and kindled by anger and resentment and bitterness that only Harry had been able to invoke. It was the very seed of his loathing for Harry; envy twisted with contempt, like serpents of fiery emerald binding chains of mingled hatred and disgusted admiration around him.   
  
Then again, when had it been any different? When had he ever been better than Harry? When did he have something Harry didn't? The answer was, never. And now, the something that he didn't have, which he wanted more than anything else, was Harry, and this raging yearning filled every space between each heartbeat.  
  
Draco stared at Harry and tried to remember all the things about him that he used to hate, the loathing that used to come so naturally; but now it was just a strange, detached remembrance, like a faint twitch of déjà vu, a whispered thread from a past that seemed too far removed to be real. Now, all he could see was Harry, the way he truly was without the distortion of the bitter veil of jealousy and enmity, and he saw the way Harry smiled, sincere and encouraging, the way his slim hands moved over the handle of his Firebolt with careful pride, gripping it as it yielded to his complete control, they way Harry's lithe body leaned over his slender broomstick as he soared downward in a steep dive, the wind streamlining past him with fluid resistance, and Draco watched, mesmerised —  
  
"What _the_— !"  
  
Ron appeared from nowhere, sharply rounding the bend and almost tripping over Draco's outstretched legs, just managing to keep his balance and prevent a rather unceremonious tumble to the ground. He whirled around and stared at Draco, incredulity quickly changing into plain contempt as recognition set in.  
  
"What are _you_ doing here, Malfoy?" Ron spat angrily, sparks of fury igniting in his blue eyes.   
  
Draco recovered swiftly, and matched Ron glare for glare. "I'm sitting down minding my own business. Not against the rules, is it?"  
  
Ron's eyes glinted dangerously. "Don't give me that crap." He advanced on Draco, who had risen to his feet and was carelessly dusting off his robes, carrying off the air of nonchalance flawlessly. "I know perfectly well what you're doing here, Malfoy."  
  
"Then asking questions you already know the answers to is generally not very productive, Weasley." Draco's eyes shone with malice. "But that does explain the arrested mental development."  
  
"You're spying on our Quidditch strategy," Ron accused, his face flushing with rage, making his freckles stand out like specks of hot charcoal on flushed skin. "You son of a b—"  
  
"I am _not_ spying on your stupid strategy, Weasley," Draco hissed, cutting Ron off. His pale face coloured slightly as Ron's words touched on a sensitive nerve. "Besides, there isn't even much of a strategy to speak of, since your only ace is that Potter can catch the Snitch and that really can't be called a tactic at all, can it? And don't you _dare _insult my mother, you—"  
  
"Get lost, Malfoy." Ron's voice was spiked with steel. "And don't think I won't _make_ you leave. You're not very menacing without your two henchmen by your side, are you now?"  
  
"Save it, Weasley." Draco smoothly stepped back, and his tone was calm and unfazed. "I can do better than picking a fight with someone who's too lousy to even make his house's Quidditch team." He gave Ron a malevolent sneer. "But then again, the sidelines are where you belong, anyway."  
  
Ron's fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned a deathly white, and he was shaking with fury and frustration for lack of a retort. Draco's smug smile pierced him through, invoking something past the realm of anger and rage — hatred, deep and intense, sparking like electricity in Ron's eyes of metallic sapphire. When Ron spoke again, however, his voice was amazingly even, though thinly controlled.   
  
"One day, Malfoy," he hissed between gritted teeth, his tone low and sliced with antipathy. "On the day you finally fall with a mighty crash, know that it is exactly what you deserve." Ron's voice was chillingly quiet. "And know that I will be the first one there to watch."  
  
"My pleasure, Weasley." Draco's voice dripped with acid sarcasm. "Anything to add some meaning to your miserable life. It's the least I can do for charity."  
  
They stood and glared at each other for a long moment, mutual venom in their stares — then Draco turned and strode off, away from Gryffindor Tower, without so much as a backward glance. His black robes billowed behind him as he walked, his gait measured and graceful, the wind streamlining the fine velvet that showed off the slender cut of his torso, and he finally disappeared around the bend.  
  
Ron stood where he was, rooted to the spot for a few long minutes even after Draco was gone. The caustic words still lingered like toxic air, and as Ron drew a calming breath he could still hear the gloating tone of Draco's voice, taunting him — and what hurt most was the silent defeat he'd had to concede, because Draco spoke the truth in all its painful glory, the truth that he always fell _this_ much short of the best, be it in Quidditch or grades or financial standing.  
  
The corrosive rage fed a long-harboured resentment within him, and Ron bit down on his lower lip in helpless frustration, and closed his eyes for a moment as he thought of how much he bitterly envied Draco Malfoy, for having everything that he couldn't have, and for constantly rubbing his face in it; the wrath trickled into a dark pool of vengefulness that stirred deep within him, dammed up inside his soul.  
  
_One day,_ Ron thought grimly, slowly turning his face toward the Quidditch pitch, where he could vaguely make out the figures of the Gryffindor team darting across the darkened skies. All of a sudden Ron found he had lost the mood and enthusiasm to analyse Quidditch strategy — it began to hurt, a detached sort of ache in the pit of his stomach, just to watch the team in the freedom of flight, soaring the skies, because he secretly had badly wanted to be one of them, but hadn't made the cut.   
  
He'd made himself believe that he was satisfied with the strategizing role that Harry had offered him instead, probably more out of their friendship than anything else. He'd tried not to think about the fact that he didn't just want to plot Quidditch, he wanted to _play_ it — until Malfoy had just mercilessly reminded him of his inferiority. It seemed that only Malfoy could see transparently through his façade of woeful acceptance, laying bare the dark, wistful sadness within him that everyone else, even Harry, failed to notice.  
  
And he hated Malfoy for that.  
  
_One day, I'll get back at him for everything he's done to me,_ Ron swore inwardly, a fervent oath to unfulfilled revenge._ And then he'll be the one to regret.  
_  
Ron stormed back to the Gryffindor common room, feeling distinctly unsettled and extremely irritable, and found Hermione sitting alone at a table, deeply absorbed in a thick book laid open in front of her. Next to her stood a curious looking glass container, the interior dabbled with traces of red, placed carefully on top of a wad of tissue like a valuable piece of delicate evidence. But Ron barely noticed it as he flopped down on the chair opposite Hermione.  
  
"Do you know who I caught lurking around the Quidditch pitch just now, while Harry and the others were having practice?" Ron fumed, glaring at Hermione as if she was actually the one responsible for sending out spies to loiter around the field. "_Malfoy._ He was hiding in the shadows spying out our Quidditch strategy! That sneaky little..." Ron rattled off a litany of unpleasant and vulgar names.  
  
"Ron," Hermione cut in warningly, glancing sharply up from her readings. "Cut that out. Why are you getting so worked up about this, anyway? It's not like our strategy a state secret or something. There are only _so_ many different strategies and I bet they're all already listed in _Quidditch Through The Ages._"  
  
"That's not the point!" said Ron crossly, still looking flushed. "Malfoy's probably planning some horrid devious cheating tactic to wreck our strategy! I'll bet he has a companion edition that's along the lines of _1001 Ways To Sabotage Your Opponent's Quidditch Strategy._ Bet he tried to submit 'dress up as a Dementor' to the editors, too."  
  
"Take it easy," Hermione said, albeit distractedly, her attention still on the page she had been reading before Ron's interruption. "Don't get all hot and bothered about it — you have a tendency to overreact when it comes to this kind of thing."  
  
"I do not!" Ron replied mutinously. "But incidentally, I think that catching our sworn rival lurking around spying on our strategy more than warrants a violent reaction. Preferably directed at Malfoy." Ron balled his fist and made a nasty face.  
  
Hermione glanced up, and hesitated before asking as casually as she could, "Did Harry see Malfoy?"  
  
Ron shook his head. "Thank goodness he didn't, or he wouldn't have been able to concentrate throughout the rest of the practice session."  
  
_Probably, _Hermione agreed silently, surreptitiously returning her gaze to the book. _But not for the reason that you're thinking._ However, she wisely said nothing; other than the fact that Harry would likely be very angry with her if she told Ron about the love potion fiasco, she knew better than to stoke the flames of the volatile state that Ron was already in.  
  
While Ron continued to mutter ominously about Malfoy's grievance, Hermione returned her concentration to her book, which detailed the characteristics of various 'advanced potions'. She was hoping to glean more information about the unknown substance in the vial that Harry had given her.   
  
There wasn't a wealth of information about the topic, and most of the conclusive tests involved experiments that would have to be conducted in a Potions lab. However, minor references here and there, such as "the blood-coloured potion" and "has natural acidic properties, thus should always be concocted in a glass jar at room temperature" all hinted strongly that the remnant potion in the vial was what it claimed to be — a love potion.  
  
Ron finally caught sight of the glass vial, and eyed it curiously. "What's that? What're you reading? Don't tell me you've started on Snape's term project — that isn't due for two months!"  
  
"No, it isn't." Hermione shot him a look, and in a slightly miffed tone of voice, "but by the way, I _have_ started on the Potions project — don't forget, it counts for one-third of our final mark!"  
  
"I hate Potions," Ron digressed to grumble, the reminder of the assignment doing nothing to lift his irritable mood. "What does it matter if I do it properly, anyway? Snape hates my guts, he's just going to nit-pick for any errors he can possibly find, and mark me down for those." Ron still eyed the glass vial with interest, though, and pressed on, "So what are you doing, then? What's the jar for?"  
  
"Oh, it's just some additional Potions readings," Hermione replied as vaguely as she could, waving her hand dismissively as she furtively turned a few pages forward so that Ron would see that she'd been dwelling on the love potions chapter. She nodded at the glass vial, and continued, "that's just a sample of a special sort of potion which I obtained from Snape — it's from the list on page 867 of the textbook." She wagered that Ron wouldn't actually bother to go and check up the textbook, it being Potions readings and, well, on page 867.  
  
Ron groaned. "I can barely catch up with the assigned readings for two weeks ago, let alone _additional_ ones." He shook his head, as if baffled. "I don't understand how you can be so enthusiastic about Potions, Herm. It's ghastly — I wish I could've dropped it back in the third year. I would've taken Arithmancy over Potions any time at all." He looked at the clock on the wall — it was quickly approaching eight o'clock, and the skies would be completely dark outside by now. "Harry should be back soon."  
  
"He told me that he'll be going to see one of the professors after Quidditch practice about some late homework," Hermione quickly interjected, suddenly remembering where Harry was _really_ going after practice. Harry probably trusted her to keep him covered, and although she felt bad lying to Ron, she knew that it was the most sensible thing to do, in the circumstances. "So he'll probably not be back till later. Why don't we get started on homework first?"  
  
At the mention of the dreaded H-word, Ron quickly got to his feet — he rarely ever voluntarily yielded to the burden of studying until the exams loomed and he had no other choice. And at the moment, he was in sulky enough a mood without needing a horrid Transfiguration essay to achieve that effect.   
  
"Um, I think I'll go take a shower first," Ron said evasively, hurriedly heading toward the staircase leading to the boys' dorm, to get a change of clothes. "See you later, Hermione."  
  
Hermione grinned at Ron's transparent excuse — she knew the suggestion of doing homework would send Ron scuttling off, anyway. She knew him all too well. Secretly, she welcomed his departure so that she could keep researching without having to be discreet about it.   
  
Hermione was intrigued by what she'd found out about love potions so far — little was revealed about exactly _how_ a love potion could be concocted, since its formula was restricted from publication in school textbooks by Ministry educational regulations — but she'd read quite a lot about their properties and effects. Without a doubt, love potions were extremely powerful magic, darkly fascinating because technically, it didn't flaunt _any_ of the laws set forth in the 1875 Charter Restricting Forbidden Magic — it didn't physically torture the victim like Cruciatus did, or allow one person to consciously control another, like Imperius, although there were similarities between the two. The Ministry actually had to enact a separate Special Section for it in 1879, whereby the use of love potions was expressly forbidden, although due to legislative constraints, the punishment for breaking the Special Section rules was not as grave as for other banned magical spells.  
  
Hermione drummed her fingers thoughtfully against the edge of the desk. It now appeared that the unlikely event of Draco Malfoy actually be honest may actually be true, after all. But deep down inside she still had her misgivings about Harry's bizarre, implicit trust in Draco, and a non-conclusive vial stained with what only appeared to be love potion was not going to change her mind in a hurry.  
  
Hermione sighed and sat back in her chair, rubbing her eyes. _Be careful, Harry,_ she thought fervently, and even her mental tone was dense with worry. _If it's true that Malfoy *is* under a love spell, then things are going to become more complicated than we can ever imagine._  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Harry was feeling hot and exhausted as he dismounted his Firebolt and swung it over his shoulder, heading in the direction of the broom shed. He was alone, having dismissed his team about ten minutes ago; he'd told them to go off first on the pretext of wanted to practise flying a few laps across the pitch before calling it a night. He didn't want them to see him heading toward the Astronomy Tower, although he had an excuse ready that he was finishing his star chart in the event someone did.  
  
As he approached the broom shed, a twinge of memories rose within him, unbidden; he remembered talking to Draco here, the day after their first encounter in the Forest, and he recalled how privately surprised he'd been to see Malfoy looking so harassed, almost distraught. Ever since then, Draco's calm, unruffled veneer had never quite returned, although distinctive flashes of arrogance and defiance flared every so often, like light sparking off shards of a cracked mirror.  
  
He could almost hear Hermione's voice in his head:_ I still have a bad feeling about this, Harry._   
  
Harry vaguely wondered why _he_ wasn't feeling as doubtful and uneasy as he should be, when even Hermione, who always tended to see the good in other people, was disapproving of his actions. Harry didn't even want to think about how Ron would react. Ron'd probably... yes, he _really _didn't want to think of what Ron would say, if he found out.   
  
Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Malfoy had kissed him twice, and that wasn't counting the dreams that he was being plagued with — Harry didn't want to delve into the recollection of those, not so much because they wasn't a pleasant experience than because he was appalled at himself for actually dreaming of kissing Malfoy.  
  
Harry looked at his watch; the luminous hands glowed the way Crookshanks' eyes did, informing him that it was already half-past eight. Draco had not specified a time to meet, only that he was to go to the storage room after Quidditch practice. Harry hoped that Draco would already be there.  
  
Keeping a wary eye out for Mrs Norris, Harry sidled along the darkened corridor on the fifth floor of the Astronomy tower, which was empty and eerily quiet, his soft footsteps echoing in time with his heartbeat, like the fluttering wings of a Golden Snitch amplified a dozen times. He counted off the doors as he passed them, knowing that the storage room was the sixth door on the right, and finally drew to a halt in front of what he hoped was the correct door.  
  
Harry knocked softly — it was a conditioned reflex, each time before he opened a door — and turned the knob, cautiously peering in. The small room was suffused with the warm glow of a magical candle that would never burn down to a stump, and in the flickering play of light and shadows Draco sat on a worn-out leather armchair near the centre of the room, twirling his wand between his fingers, and reading what appeared to be a very tattered book laid on his lap.  
  
Draco looked up when Harry slid into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. "You're late," he remarked neutrally, emotion absent from his voice.  
  
"I am not late." Harry stepped closer to where Draco was sitting, finding the temperature in the room distinctly warm — perhaps it was the Quidditch practice. Or something else. "You just said to come here after practice."  
  
"Practice ended at eight o'clock, didn't it?"  
  
"I was flying a few laps across the pitch." Harry glared at Draco. "And since when do I have to account to you for my whereabouts?"   
  
Draco looked as if he was about to say something, but thought the better of it; he simply shrugged, and carefully closed the flimsy-looking book. "All right, whatever. What matters is you're here, anyway." Draco got up, and they were standing a few feet apart. "I need to talk to you about some things."  
  
"Wait." Harry saw Draco glance at him in surprise; he composed his thoughts, and took a deep breath. "Before I agree to anything else, Malfoy, I want to know everything about what's going on. Some evidence, if you've got any to show."  
  
The expression in Draco's eyes hardened imperceptibly, and they shone like tarnished silver. "You still don't believe me, do you?" There was a note of bitterness in his voice. "You still don't trust me."  
  
"This may sound harsh, Malfoy, but you haven't given me much reason to trust you since the day I knew you." Harry's voice was firm, yet not unkind. "The fact that you actually derive a warped enjoyment out of seeing me get into trouble does shake my confidence somewhat."  
  
"That was before." Draco's voice was almost painfully soft, and he lifted his eyes to look straight at Harry. "I don't feel the same way about you anymore," his lips twisted slightly with the irony of his words, "to say the least."  
  
Harry shook his head. "I'm not saying I _don't_ believe you, Malfoy, but you have to give me a solid reason _to_ believe you. Because if I'm going to help you with this, the least I must have is a complete belief that this whole love potion thing is actually true."  
  
"Is actually _true?_" Draco repeated incredulously, mild sparks of emotion flaring in his eyes. "After what's happened, you still—" Draco broke off in mid-sentence and closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath; he was visibly trying to keep calm. When he opened them again, they were glazed over with a forced impassiveness. "You—you've seen the effect you have on me, Potter. And you think I've been _faking_ it all the while?"  
  
"I never said that." The muted pain that Draco was trying so hard to conceal, yet was plainly evident to Harry, struck a nerve deep inside him. "I just need to know everything about what you're asking me to do, Malfoy, and that includes an assurance that this whole condition actually _exists._ Is that too much to ask? Am I supposed to believe you just based on your word alone?"  
  
As soon as the words spilled from his lips, Harry instantly regretted them, even as he saw the veiled hurt wash across Draco's face, pale and vulnerable in the dim light, even as those grey eyes froze and shuttered up, returning the tentative connection between them back to the level of mutual distrust.  
  
When he was away from Draco, it was hard to remember the depth of the way Draco had affected him, as logical and _sane_ thought took over; like a forgotten inspiration, a memory that didn't seem quite real. But now, in the same room as Draco, feeling the almost palpable waves of despair and helplessness radiating from the other boy, Harry remembered why he'd actually agreed to offer his help in the first place, remembered the same quiet desperation in Draco's eyes when they were standing so close together in the dark corridor en route to the Slytherin dormitory...   
  
Draco broke the silence first; a measured, careful expression wiped his face clean of the stirring emotions that churned within. "No, you don't have to trust my word alone." His voice was oddly level, and thoroughly vacant. "Actually, I asked you to come here because I wanted to show you something."  
  
Draco moved easily forward, and pressed the thin book he was holding into Harry's hands. Harry looked down at his palms; it was less of a book than a stack of parchments untidily arranged together and none too securely bound with a piece of string. It reminded Harry of the codices used in ancient times; he gingerly turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. There was no title inscription on the front page, the feel of which was dusty like worn leather. Harry opened the book, and the crisp pages rustled; he wondered if the binding was going to unravel, and so held the spine of the book firmly between his thumb and index finger.  
  
Draco said nothing, just reached over flipped the pages of the book forward for Harry, quickly finding the page he was looking for with familiar ease. He tapped his finger lightly, and nodded toward the open page. "Here's the spellbook I used, and that's the Love Potion instructions." He wryly indicated at the preceding page. "_That _was the Loss of Substance Potion which I had originally intended on making. And if you say anything along the lines of 'I told you so', Potter, I swear I'll—"  
  
"I wasn't _going_ to say that," Harry snapped, though not in an infuriated tone. He was poring over the page with rapt interest. "Just shut up and let me read, will you?"  
  
To Harry's continued amazement, Draco obeyed, and fell silent. The room was completely quiet save for the merry crackling of the magical flame. Harry intently scanned the words written on the page, which he was reading with a good measure of difficulty as the writing was overly fanciful, coupled with the fact that the dark blue ink was badly faded and smudged, as if the book had been washed several times and hung out to dry.  
  
There was a long list of ingredients, presumably the constituents required for the Love Potion. Fortunately (or perhaps, _un_fortunately), the ingredients list was the clearest part of the page — below that was a single sentence, in a language Harry assumed was Latin: _Traicit et fati litora magnus amor._ A little ways further down the page was some more writing, which Harry leaned closer and strained to read.  
  
It was written like a poem, or verse — indented an inch or so from the side margin of the page. However, the words were very barely visible, like tendrils of ghost writing, although when Harry squinted for long enough he could just about make out the first two lines, before the verse abruptly terminated in a sharp linear rip that serrated the bottom of the page. The rest of whatever was written was lost in whatever had become of the missing shred.  
  
Harry made an exasperated sound. "For crying out loud, Malfoy, this damn book is falling apart and you're still crazy enough to use its spells? How if only half a spell is listed and the other half is missing? You're lucky you didn't splinch yourself!"  
  
"Yes, and ending up in love with you is a much better option," Draco remarked sarcastically, shooting Harry a sharp look, "because after all, I could have splinched myself instead! And that would be so much worse, now wouldn't it."  
  
"Oh shut up," Harry said crossly, returning Draco's glare, "and tell me what it says down there at the bottom of the page."  
  
Draco craned his neck forward, and his hair brushed lightly against Harry's cheek as he did so. "It's a short poem, I think. It says, 'A chemical emotion, falsely real; the power to hurt, and the power to heal.'" He paused, and drew back slightly.  
  
"And?" Harry prompted impatiently.   
  
"And the composition of air is made out of some percentage of oxygen and other invisible molecules that aren't quite as useful to us."  
  
"What?" Harry blinked, leaning forward to peer at the page, pushing his glasses up his nose. "It actually _says_ that?"  
  
"Of course not," Draco snapped, rolling his eyes. "I can't read off the page, now can I?"  
  
"So that's all it says? Or is there more to it?" Harry questioned. "And what does it mean, anyway?"  
  
Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "How the hell should I know if there's more to it? If there is, it makes no difference — it's been torn off, anyway. It might just be a two-line verse, since it seems fairly self-contained — I mean, it rhymes and all. Might be a minimalist sort of artistic git who wrote it." He paused, and looked squarely up at Harry, who was still puzzling over the book with curious interest, and spoke meaningfully, "But I think I can _show_ you what it means."  
  
Draco drew out a slender blade from the inner folds of his robes, took a bold step forward. He took the spellbook out of Harry's palm, dropping it onto the seat of the armchair; then he turned back and carefully pressed the hilt of the knife into Harry's hand, the pointed edge facing in his own direction. Harry stared at the knife, dumbfounded, as if the carved snakes on the intricately engraved hilt of the blade had suddenly become live serpents in his palm, and he looked up at Draco, nonplussed. "What's this?"  
  
"It's a knife, Potter. What have you used to keep your fork company all these years?"  
  
Before Harry could think up a reply to that, Draco abruptly pulled apart the collar of his own black robes, and yanked his left sleeve down his shoulder, partially baring his chest. His collarbone marked a defined ridge on the smooth curve leading down from his neck, a flawless stretch of pale, creamy skin, which seemed to glow with its own unique radiance. Draco's shoulder was slim and angular, perfectly balanced with his lithe body frame, slender without being too thin.  
  
Harry blinked, and eyed Draco warily. "Uh, Malfoy..."  
  
His perplexed voice trailed off as Draco reached over and seized hold of his right wrist, the hand that was holding the knife; the blade glinted silver danger as Draco lifted it up, closer, bringing it just a whisper away from his own exposed neck, all the while never once breaking eye contact with Harry.  
  
Now Harry was thoroughly confused, bordering alarm; he blinked again, bewildered. "Malfoy, what—"  
  
Without warning, Draco gripped Harry's wrist tightly and pushed it downward in a swift, determined stroke; the blade glanced past the vulnerable curve of his neck, and slashed a deep oblique gash right across the left side of his chest. Vivid fresh blood blossomed forth, flowing down in narrow crimson rivulets and staining the green lining of his black robes.  
  
"Oh my _god!_" Harry let out a horrified yell, and reflexively jerked his hand away from Draco's grip; Draco simultaneously released his hold, and the imbrued knife went clattering out of Harry's hand to the floor, specks of blood spitting from its blade, the hollow metallic clang followed by an even more deafening silence.  
  
Harry staggered a few steps backward, reeling from the shock; he stared at Draco, utterly stunned. "What—" he spluttered, "What are you _doing,_ Malfoy?" His eyes were wild and frantic with shock. "Oh god!"  
  
Draco was completely unfazed, even with blood running from a deep wound across his chest. He completely ignored the bleeding, and instead stepped closer to Harry, who was still frozen with disbelief.   
  
Draco smiled, although it was a very cool, almost sardonic smile, lined with bitterness on the edges. He reached over and grabbed hold of Harry's hand again, which was stiff and tensed, held almost protectively behind Harry's back. Harry resisted, but Draco was firm, and pulled Harry's hand forward, spreading open Harry's curled fingers with his own. Draco could feel the quivering pulse as he held Harry's wrist; he moved even closer, swallowing up the distance between them until he was so near Harry that he could feel the warmth of Harry's quickened breathing.   
  
Then, he pressed Harry's open palm flat against the seething crimson slash on his own chest.  
  
Harry let out another strangled gasp and tried to withdraw his hand, but Draco wouldn't let him; Harry suddenly felt a jet of ice cold lined with fire shoot through his hand. Like a sliver of energy, it exited his body through his palm, straight into Draco's wound, and it was the strangest sensation — not pain, but a deep, intense pulse, like a thousand heartbeats compressed into one.  
  
Draco felt Harry's palm go limp in his grasp, his resistance faltering; Draco he closed his eyes as he felt the fiery cold rush into his body through the wound on his chest, almost as if his heart was rent open to lay exposed. The ice in his veins made him shiver, and he broke out in a cold sweat, feeling flushed — but this sensation was nothing like he'd ever felt before; instead of draining him, it felt invigorating, as if pouring life into his ebbing blood, infusing a certain power into him from within.  
  
Harry couldn't tear his gaze away from where his palm seemed rooted by an unseen force; his eyes widened in utter surprise, and he stared as the wound on Draco's chest twitched beneath his fingers. The strangest thing was happening — the fresh crimson blood suddenly glazed dark red, and the inflamed flesh lining the open gash appeared to seal together. Before his startled eyes, the entire scarlet streak itself seemed to evaporate like water on heated metal, growing fainter and fainter until only a ghostly trace of dried blood remained, outlining a glistening silver scar.  
  
Draco opened his eyes calmly; a vague emotion darted across his impassive features, softened with weariness. He glanced down at his own chest, and saw the scar standing in the place that the knife had sliced apart — it was now healed under Harry's trembling fingers, which were smeared with his rapidly drying blood.  
  
He returned Harry's slack-jawed look with a wry smile. "It's as it says, Potter," he said softly, looking evenly into Harry's eyes, "the power to hurt..."  
  
"...and the power to heal," Harry finished, in a hoarse whisper, the disbelief still stark on his face, mingled with disbelieving wonder and grim realisation. Harry continued to stare at the place where his hand rested on Draco's chest, tangled emotions flitting across his face like a storm of butterflies. He looked shaken; numbed, he finally drew his hand back, and Draco let him.  
  
Draco pulled his sleeve back onto his healed shoulder and stepped back, putting a respectable distance between them once again. "It's the magic that binds us together, Potter. You can inflict a death stroke upon me, and you can heal it with the merest touch of your hand. If you hadn't done anything just now, I would have bled to death because of that wound."  
  
Harry closed his eyes, rubbing his arm across his forehead, where a sheen of sweat had formed. "This is—" he shook his head, almost at a loss for words. "This is unimaginable."  
  
"Is it?" Draco sounded mildly bemused. "Is it all that unimaginable? All through history down to this day millions of people have given themselves over to this sort of control, entirely voluntarily. They would sacrifice everything they had, suffer torture and die horrible deaths, all in the noble name of love. This potion just reproduces that exact effect, because the truth is, love can kill, and the one you love is the one who can hurt you deepest."  
  
Harry still wore a dazed, mildly traumatised look, and he stared at his hand for a long moment, where Draco's blood was swiftly drying under his fingernails. He rubbed his hand futilely against his robes, not succeeding in removing much of the bloodstain.   
  
Draco gave him a sidelong look — the last time he'd remembered Harry with such an expression of detached horror was back in their fourth year, during the Triwizard Cup finale melee, where Draco had glimpsed Harry being led off by the later-proven-impostor Mad-Eye Moody.   
  
"Are you all right?" Draco asked quietly, watching Harry with an unwavering gaze.  
  
Harry looked up abruptly, as if snapping out of his daze; the edges of his mouth curled upward tiredly. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"   
  
Draco looked down at the front of his robes, where a patch of dark red mingled with the black fabric, and he grimaced. "Hell, my robes are in a mess. People are going to think I botched an attempt at suicide, or something."  
  
Harry shot him a severe look. "Only that you used _my_ hand to hold the knife. Literally."   
  
Draco shrugged, as if such blood sport was an everyday occurrence with him. "You asked for proof, didn't you? So I gave you proof, in the flesh. Also literally."  
  
A pensive silence followed, and it was becoming almost awkward when Harry finally spoke up. "You should go and get yourself cleaned up." He eyed Draco's shoulder, where his robes still hung loosely on his shoulder, pulled open at the collar. "Are you _sure_ that ghastly thing has completely healed? I don't want you bleeding all the way back to your dorm."  
  
"True, that wouldn't go too well with the Hogwarts décor." Draco tilted his head, a small smile on his face. "Would have worked better if we were in this castle back in the medieval times, wouldn't it? Trails of blood all over the place were a sign of efficient butchering back then. Ah, the good old times."  
  
"Stop it, Malfoy." Harry shuddered as he turned and walked toward the door. "Such comments don't exactly make me feel comfortable being alone in the same room with you, you know."  
  
"Tell me, when do you _ever_ feel comfortable being alone in the same room as me?"  
  
"Well, it helps a little if you're not enthusiastically raving about hacking people to bits. I've seen quite enough blood for one night." Harry had reached out his hand to turn the doorknob, when Draco called out softly to him,  
  
"Wait."  
  
Harry looked around, and Draco walked over to where he stood. Draco's expression was one of suppressed intensity, and his eyes were warmed with a strange yet familiar earnest. Harry held his gaze, silently questioning, and he felt a twitch of anticipation stir inside him, a formless expectation.  
  
"Are you convinced, now?" Draco's voice was even, and bore no reproach — in fact, Harry could sense the tone of resignation woven between the quiet words.  
  
Harry took a deep breath, and nodded once. "Yes."   
  
Harry actually felt bad, almost _guilty_, for having pushed Draco to the extent that he had to slice his chest just to convince him that the situation with the love potion was indeed true. And seeing the way Draco had trusted _him, _the reckless decisiveness with which Draco had swung the knife held in Harry's own hand downward, without even the slightest trace of hesitation — it was as if Draco completely believed, without a shadow of a doubt, that Harry could heal him, and would.  
  
_To think he used to hate me. _Harry thought introspectively._ And I hated him, too. How things change.  
_  
Draco bit his lip, looking plainly at Harry; he hesitated, and then started to ask, "And do you t—"  
  
"Yes."   
  
"—take me as your lawfully wedded?" Draco raised his eyebrow with a teasing look, a devious smile making the troubled expression on his face disappear like mist in sunlight. He shook his head in mock astonishment. "My, Potter, I had no idea you'd agree so readily."  
  
Harry gave him a narrowed look. "Very funny, Malfoy."  
  
Draco responded by reaching over and taking Harry's hand off the doorknob, and he slid a silver ring onto Harry's fourth finger; then he offered a serene smile and took a small step backwards.  
  
Harry gawked at the ring that Draco had placed on his hand. "You're not actually serious."  
  
Draco nodded solemnly. "Gryffindor's most eligible bachelor is now officially off the market."  
  
Harry stared at the ring — it was embellished with a row of tiny, sparkling jewels, alternate crystalline violet and deep green, flawlessly set in a band of polished silver that glowed almost white. It certainly _looked_ very real, and expensive, if it wasn't actually so. "What's this for, Malfoy?"  
  
"It's for you," Draco said simply. "Besides showing you the spellbook, I wanted to give you this."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"You said yes, remember?" Draco deadpanned. "Too bad for all the broken-hearted Gryffindor girls."  
  
"Be serious, Malfoy."  
  
Draco's smile faded, and he sobered. "It's a ring that belonged to my mother, which she gave me when I had to leave home to come here to Hogwarts. It's set with crystals of emerald and amethyst — they're supposed to have protective powers against evil, and are used to help focus thought." He levelled Harry's gaze. "But I have no need of it now, since, as you've just seen, you have the ability to very conveniently kill me, if you wanted to."  
  
Harry still looked dubiously at the ring. "And so you want me to wear it, instead."   
  
Draco said nothing, just took hold of Harry's hand once more and drew it closer, examining the ring where it encircled Harry's finger. "Amethyst is supposed to heal, bringing protection and clarity of mind. Emerald repels evil and—" Draco looked up at Harry, tilting his head contemplatively, "well, it brings out the colour of your eyes."  
  
Draco let go of Harry's hand, and moved back calmly; Harry blinked, and could think of nothing to say. He looked expectantly at Draco, but the other boy had already averted his eyes and turned away.  
  
Draco opened the door, and held it open for Harry to exit first. "Keep the ring properly, will you? It's bloody expensive, and it's my mother's. Which is why it's probably the only piece of jewellery I have that doesn't have 'Malfoy' engraved on it."  
  
"What, so that 'if found, please return to owner'?" Harry rolled his eyes, stepping out of the room. "Because if you didn't have the family name inscribed on, people won't know who it belonged to and might just about pocket it for themselves?"  
  
"Shut up, Potter," Draco snapped under his breath, as he soundlessly closed the door to the storage room after checking that everything inside was in original order. "You're just jealous because you don't have enough jewellery to send to have your name carved on."  
  
"Oh, so _that's_ the reason — bulk discounts."  
  
"Quit it, Potter, before I take the ring back and then you'll have no protection against the wicked ones."  
  
"Just walk a little further away from me and the same effect would be achieved."  
  
They reached the stairwell and began to descend it in silence; halfway down, Harry suddenly remembered the upcoming Quidditch match, which was only five days away, it currently being Friday night. He turned to Draco. "Do you know that the Gryffindor-Slytherin match has been advanced to the coming Wednesday?"  
  
The shadows shielded Draco's expression, which seemed to darken imperceptibly. "I know. Finnigan told me."  
  
"So..." Harry trailed off questioningly.  
  
"So hopefully we can fix this before the match." Draco answered shortly; his voice was clipped, and he didn't sound as confident as he usually did. "I'll try and think of something."  
  
"You've figured out a plan?"  
  
"No," Draco seemed rather agitated, "but I _will_ come up with something." He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself more than Harry. "And— and if you've got any ideas, let me know."  
  
To Harry, that was about as positive an admission that Draco was still clueless about what to do next. Draco Malfoy, as he knew, was never one to ask for help unless he was well and truly hedged in with an urgent need to get out. He'd seen it before, when they were alone in the corridor yesterday — the waves of quiet desperation, all too evident in the way Draco looked away, in the tightness of his voice.  
  
They exited the Astronomy Tower, and reached the parting of the ways; Harry was going back to Gryffindor Tower while Draco was taking the stone stairway down the Slytherin dungeons.   
  
"Well, I'll see what I can do." Harry turned to Draco, and suddenly thought of how the shadows that fell across Draco's face complemented his fair complexion and light hair very well. It was a darkly pretty contrast, one which he'd never quite noticed before, probably due to the fact that he didn't make a frequent habit of strolling around with Malfoy at night.  
  
Draco merely nodded, though there was a muted sadness in his eyes. "All right." Then he abruptly turned and walked away, slipping off to the stone staircase by the side, which led to the Slytherin dungeons.   
  
Harry stood for a few moments, watching Draco leave; then he turned in the opposite direction, walking back to his dorm, and troubled thoughts filled with knives and rings and blood and Draco accompanied him all the way back to Gryffindor Tower.   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
The kink continues — handcuffs, blood sport, what next? :) Harry believes Draco now, but what can he do? Will they be able to fix Draco's predicament before the match? Highly unlikely, but lots more surprises in store, that's for certain! And I *promise* I won't take quite as long to post the next chapter next time around...   
  
  
^ ^ ^ ^ ^   
  
  
Since I'm rushing this chapter out for posting, here's a no-frills thank you section: Thanks to Heidi for the speedy beta, and to everyone who took the time to leave a review:   
  
Cassandra Claire, Keieru, Jedi Boadicea, Elani Kera, Luckfire, Kei, Karina, Evangeline, Rosmerta, Hillary Bean, plumeria, Morsus Crustum, Moriel, Bec, Eloria, wingedkeys, Al, The Water Warrior, J. L. Matthews, Michi Chu, Adelina, Silverfox, minx, Saitaina A. Moricia, Firebolt909, Julianna Priest, Amanita Lestrange, nortylaK, Lindsay Beth, tangwystl, Amethyst, kkscatnip - kat, Otaku_Neev, Nora, Swythangel, Aeryn StarWyl, Tessie, lee-anne, miss breed, Just Silver, Di-chan, Unicorn Chick, felicia, Crymson Tyrdrop, Sweet Eowyn, Rose~*~Black, Lady Neptune, Raistlin Majere, Hermione Malfoy, CatFish, hermioneatkcom, Becks, Silver, Jewel, Ayanami R., Aura*Potter, Jax, Mir-kitty, Tani, Jennifer, Misako, ~*Fluff*~, GentleWaterSoul, Raven Maxwell,Wyvern, Kerr, 2 HaLveS MaKe a wHoLe, starrydreamer, Nataku's Child, Amo Draconem!, Nurikoholic, Aikan, Raven Mars, TXLindsey, Ceitlin Malefoy, Lady Ebonsong, Mayhem, purpleatheist, angelia, Lynn Music, Lexi, forgiven_change...  
and not forgetting those who reviewed on the cassie_and_rhysenn list: Benjamin, Melissa, Genevieve, Krystiana, Teek, and Romie...   
  
...schnoogles to all of you — your wonderful reviews are much much appreciated :)   
  
  
---  
  



	7. 

Irresistible Poison, Chapter 7: Faithful Scars, by Rhysenn

  
**Irresistible Poison   
Chapter Seven: Faithful Scars**  
  
  
_Then shall you know the wounds invisible   
That love's keen arrows make. _  
  
  
There were no classes on Saturday morning, and as lunchtime approached, Harry found himself curled up in a corner by the fireplace. His brow was furrowed with what some might call an intelligent frown as he tried to concentrate on the words of the book spread open in front of him, which blathered on in shameless run-on sentences with no sign of a full-stop anywhere on the horizon.   
  
Ron had insisted on going down to the Quidditch pitch to spy on the Slytherin strategy, since they were booked for practice that morning. Ever since last night when he'd returned to the dormitory, and this morning all the way through breakfast, Harry had listened to Ron seethe about finding Malfoy lurking around the pitch 'spying'. Harry didn't try to dissuade him from his little excursion, since he wanted to talk to Hermione in private about the events that had transpired in the storage room.  
  
Hermione was sitting next to him, absorbed in reading; at this point, when Harry had given up actually reading text and was just scanning for the phrase 'love potion', she looked up and asked, "So that's all the book said? The Latin phrase _Traicit et fati litora magnus amor?_"  
  
"And that two-line verse," Harry nodded at the piece of paper lying between them, where he had written out as much as he could remember of what was legible in the spellbook (Draco had taken it back with him). "That's all there was — anything else had been ripped away."  
  
"Hmm," said Hermione, chewing daintily on the tip of her quill, "well, I can't seem to find even one reference to this Latin phrase in any of the magical books. I've spent the last hour checking indexes, concordances, everything — it appears nowhere else."  
  
"How about the short poem?" Harry prompted.   
  
Hermione shook her head. "That's way too vague to be cross-referenced anywhere — _A chemical emotion, falsely real; the power to hurt, and the power to heal._ I figure even if I could check, it'd come up empty as well — that spellbook seems to be only place that anything specific relating to the love potion appears." She gave Harry a look. "Anything legal and orthodox that we're privy to, at least. Raid Malfoy's library and I'm sure they even offer recipes for preparing love potions in different flavours."  
  
Harry cracked a smile. "So did you verify that what the vial contained was love potion?"  
  
Hermione gave a half-shrug. "As far as I can tell, it certainly looks like it. If I wanted to be completely sure I'd have to test it in a Potions lab, then there's the Snape factor to consider... and it's not like I can _taste_ the potion to see if it's the real stuff."  
  
"No, no," Harry said quickly, vaguely wondering how he would cope if Hermione got roped in under the spell of the potion, too. "That won't be necessary — the lab testing, that is. I mean, I think I'm fairly convinced that Malfoy's telling the truth."  
  
Hermione had been thoroughly fascinated by the account of Malfoy's knife-wound, and had made Harry tell it three times over so she could analyse exactly how the miraculous healing came about. She still couldn't explain it, and Harry had started to look rather queasy from the multiple vivid recollections of what happened.   
  
She nodded slowly, pondering deeply. "The healing effect you had on Malfoy — it's almost unbelievable, that you have such _power_ over him. I mean, isn't it scary? To have so much control over someone else?"  
  
"According to Malfoy, all the love potion actually does is recreate the effect of _real _love — that you'd do anything for the person you're in love with, and in a way, that's how he or she has a complete hold over you." Harry paused thoughtfully. "Makes sense, really. But you're right, it's scary. I almost had an aneurysm when Malfoy stabbed himself with the knife _I_ was holding." He shuddered.  
  
Hermione smiled, and shook her head. "Ron would've given anything to be in your position — and Malfoy probably wouldn't even have to guide his hand, considering how very hacked off Ron is with him at the moment."  
  
A thought abruptly occurred to Harry, accompanied with a wild, sinking dread. "Hermione — you haven't _told_ Ron about this, have you?"  
  
Hermione gave him a pointed look. "Have you seen Ron charging toward you wielding a pickaxe recently?"  
  
"No." Harry's lips twitched with a small smile of relief. "Don't tell him, all right?"  
  
Hermione's expression sobered. "But you aren't going to keep this from him forever, are you?"  
  
Harry looked alarmed. "_Forever?_ Hell, no, this damn thing isn't supposed to last that long. Recall, we're actually trying to find a way to get _rid_ of it?"  
  
"I know," Hermione sounded mildly aggrieved. "But still — it feels wrong, keeping Ron in the dark about what we're doing."  
  
Harry looked genuinely troubled; he sighed and set his book down, pushing his glasses up his nose. "You think I don't feel awful about it too? I hate the idea of hiding things from Ron as much as you do — I mean, he's always been there for me when I needed him. It feels horrible to not tell him, but, really—" Harry moved his hands in a helpless gesture, "what can I do? Ron'll chop me into little bits if he finds out about this, and he'll make talcum powder out of Malfoy."  
  
"And you're willing to compromise your friendship with Ron, in the not-so-unlikely event that he _does_ find out?" Hermione shot Harry a doubtful look. "All this at stake, just for Malfoy?"  
  
Harry looked distressed. "What do you expect me to do, Hermione?" He raked a hand through his tousled hair in despairing frustration. "Malfoy made me slice his chest open last night, and I walked back to my dorm with my hands still stained with his blood. And god knows what will happen if I don't at least _try_ to help him — he may implode, or something messier than that. And then on the other hand there's Ron, and I _really_ hate to go behind his back, but..." he trailed off, unable to reconcile his conflicting thoughts even in words.  
  
"Do you think there's even the remotest chance that Ron would understand?" Hermione asked, though she knew the compelling odds were that it was more likely for a basilisk to have a picnic with you without having you for its picnic, than for Ron Weasley to ever be all right with helping Draco Malfoy in any way at all, be it tying a shoelace or reversing a love potion.  
  
Harry hesitated, and seemed to be casting about for the right words. "Let's put it this way: Malfoy's been a real bastard to Ron all the while, no doubt about that. And if Ron ever learned about this, imagine what a perfect opportunity for revenge it'd be. He could really hurt Malfoy back for all the grudges between them — and I really don't think Malfoy is in any condition right now for that kind of thing. It just wouldn't be fair." He sighed and offered a useless shrug. "It isn't Ron's fault either. It's just human nature — it'd take a saint not to react that way."  
  
"And yet you don't." Hermione mused quietly, almost to herself.   
  
Harry blinked. "What do you mean?"  
  
Hermione raised her eyes, looking directly at Harry. "You don't think that way," she said simply. "Malfoy hasn't treated you much better than he has Ron. He's tried to get you into hot soup countless times before, and often in the worst, most spiteful manner possible. And now, you're in the perfect position to make him pay dearly for everything he's done to you, a situation that admittedly, Ron would've milked for what it's worth — but that's not what you're doing at all."  
  
Harry heaved another sigh. "I don't quite know why I'm doing this, either," he confessed wryly, his green eyes clouding with a pensive haze, misty with remembrance. "It's just that this love potion business — it's deadly serious, from what I've seen of it. It isn't just about settling scores or getting back at someone you don't like — this involves real emotions that have been twisted out of shape, and along with it blood and pain and, for all you know, life or death."  
  
Hermione crinkled her nose slightly. "And the fact that we're actually caring about _Malfoy's _welfare doesn't bother you in the least." Her tone was one of distaste.   
  
Harry shook his head. "I don't care about Malfoy — I'm only helping him because he needs it. It's more out of obligation than actual willingness — there's a difference."  
  
"A really sketchy one." Hermione muttered softly. "But Harry, are you sure you want to do this? You have no idea what the consequences of the love potion are. These are serious Dark Arts, Harry. Think _carefully_ about what you're actually getting into here, and whether or not you're prepared to go all the way with it. Because I think it's better you stay out of it from the start rather than bail on Malfoy halfway through."  
  
Harry absently drew out the ring Draco had given him, which he wore on a thin silver chain necklace around his neck, kept concealed inside the front of his robes. He drew the necklace over his head and held the ring in his hand, slowly running his finger over the smooth, cool metal band, feeling the defined edges on the surface of each crystal. Harry was struck anew by its simplistic beauty, elegant without needing to be elaborate, green and violet alternating in a pastel, crystalline sort of blend and contrast.   
  
When he had shown the ring to Hermione earlier on, she had promptly taken it away from him and proceeded to subject it to a string of Sensing Spells and curse detecting charms. However, it came up completely clean, and she had finally gave it back to Harry, albeit suspiciously. "Malfoy doesn't strike me as the generous sort," she had said. "He's not even going to be lending jewellery for nothing."  
  
As Harry tilted the ring to a different angle, the amethyst and jade glinted as they successively caught the rays of sunlight filtering in from outside, drawing out two slivers of pure colour from the spectrum of the rainbow and reflecting them in a bright dazzle that seemed to shine with its own white-platinum glow.   
  
And faintly and softly in his mind, like an autumn drizzle, Harry heard Draco saying,   
  
_Amethyst is supposed to heal, bringing protection and clarity of mind.  
_  
Harry felt confused, uneasy and very unsure, as he stared unhappily at the tongues of fire dancing in the fireplace, kept lit even during the day to repel the winter chill. It was always this way — everything seemed so straightforward and simple when all he saw was Malfoy, his eyes shining with a silent plea and his smile edged with electric pain, quiet but not hidden.   
  
_Emerald repels evil, and... it brings out the colour of your eyes.  
_  
And whenever he saw Malfoy that way, fervently desperate and broken in spirit, his innate sense of what was _right_ told him affirmatively that he had to help him, no matter what. Not for anything else, but because it was the right and therefore only thing to do.  
  
But when he was away from Malfoy — things felt different. Reality sank its fangs down on the sympathetic side of his mind, injecting the venom of apprehension and doubt, and the right thing to do no longer seemed as crystal clear as before. Even though he'd convinced himself that Malfoy wasn't fabricating the whole love potion idea, he still had a bad feeling about all this.  
  
"You don't have the motivation to actually _want_ to go through with it," Hermione spoke up thoughtfully, voicing the sentiments that Harry couldn't quite pin down. "But you know that you _need_ to do something, one way or the other, so you can tell yourself that you did try to make it better."  
  
Harry gave up trying to articulate his restless thoughts into something that would even begin to make sense — they were actually just a confusing blend of contrasting emotions, about as miscible as kerosene and water, and as volatile as touching a flame to that mixture.  
  
"I just want for this to be fixed as soon as possible, so that we can both get on with our lives," Harry said slowly, attempting to wrap his mind around the words he was speaking, as if trying to determine if they matched his true feelings. "I just want things to go back to normal, when they made a hell of a lot more sense than they do now."  
  
"And that's what you really want." Hermione said deliberately, her tone measured.  
  
It wasn't quite a question, nor did it offer the reassurance of being a statement. Harry was glad it didn't demand an answer, because he wasn't sure he could give a definite reply to that. Decisions were hard, especially when someone else's life was threaded into the equation, and the fact that the person was Draco Malfoy completely threw everything out of balance and out of the window. There was no use trying to rationalise, when the very idea of it was insane to start off.  
  
"I don't know." Harry decided to leave the issue altogether unanswered. Reasons would come later, as regrets always did. "But what I do know is, I can't walk away, not now. So that's a pretty strategic roadblock where the path diverges."  
  
Before Hermione could respond to that, the portrait hole swung open and in crawled Ron, hot and flushed either from excitement or from having been chased all the way back to the common room by Slytherins who had caught him on his merry little reconnaissance mission.  
  
"Ha!" Ron crowed jubilantly, bounding over to where Harry and Hermione were sitting nestled by the fireplace. He flopped down next to them, the rose tinge on both his cheeks matching the flaming red of his hair perfectly, making his freckles stand out. "I managed to watch most of the Slytherins' practice session and I figured out their strategy — it's _perfect_."  
  
"Oh really," Hermione remarked dryly; she had been disapproving of Ron going to spy in the very first place. "I thought that's what you said about _our_ game plan."  
  
Ron shot her a withering look. "Perfect for us, I mean. Look," he turned to Harry, and proceeded to gesture animatedly with his hands, pointing at invisible spots in mid-air as he explained the workings of the Top-Secret Slytherin Quidditch Strategy, speaking very fast. Harry found it increasingly hard to imagine where the non-existent dots were moving, and in the end fell back on just listening to Ron's commentary. Apparently Slytherin was playing a wing-intensive forward formation, which meant that centre-field would be most open and vulnerable, which favoured Gryffindor because their Chasers were more proficient playing down the middle of the pitch.  
  
"And the best piece of news is that Malfoy seems _really _out of it during the practice, which totally made my day to watch him," Ron grinned triumphantly. "If he keeps up the poor form, you'll have a fun time running circles around him on Wednesday."  
  
Hermione glanced quickly at Harry, and saw that his eyes were suddenly bright with attentiveness, as he asked in a forcedly casual tone, "What do you mean, out of it?"  
  
"He flew terribly," Ron explained gleefully, still looking thoroughly pleased with himself. "He looked like he wasn't concentrating very well on what he was doing — twice he almost got knocked off his broom by a Bludger. Hilarious, that was. If he flies like that in the match, the only thing you'll have to worry about, Harry, is that you don't end up laughing so hard you forget to catch the Snitch."  
  
"Awfully complacent, aren't we, Ron?" Hermione asked sharply. "Malfoy isn't as good as Harry, but he certainly isn't all that lousy a flyer, or he wouldn't have been made captain."  
  
Ron's eyes hardened with a dark tension. "Do you really believe that, Hermione? With Lucius Malfoy back on the board of governors, he doesn't need to pull many strings to get his son as team captain." Lucius Malfoy's generous contributions to St Mungo's and other welfare institutions had canvassed enough support within Ministry circles to get him reinstated as a governor of Hogwarts.  
  
Ron looked at both of them with a fierce sort of pride, which reminded Harry strongly of Oliver Wood. "And in all the past games they've played against us, have you ever seen Malfoy catch the Snitch? Not once."  
  
Hermione seemed too absorbed in furtively watching Harry's reaction to respond; Ron now turned to Harry, his blue eyes blazing with a deep truculent intensity. "You _have_ to beat him, Harry," he said earnestly, "Show him that money can never buy talent, or a true victory. Show him that having an influential father means nothing when he needs to cheat to have a shot at winning , and yet still lose." Ron drew a deep, fiery breath, and continued, "Because I need to see him fail once more, for everything he's ever done to us."  
  
Even though Ron had said 'us', both Hermione and Harry knew that he actually meant 'me'. Hermione could see the raw thirst for revenge so plainly evident in Ron's eyes, and for a moment it scared her, how long-held grudges from ingrained family rivalry could precipitate such anger and hatred. She looked over at Harry, and saw the look of torn confusion contorting Harry's face, troubled lines etched into a small frown, even as he gave a constricted nod and said a soft "Of course", avoiding Ron's gaze and her own.  
  
_Oh no,_ Hermione lamented inwardly, a sinking dread starting up in the pit of her stomach, a harbinger of things unpleasant. _This is a disaster just waiting to happen._  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Draco emerged fresh from a shower, his blond hair slick as wet silk, fine and threaded with beads of silver water at the tips. He shook his head lightly, then tossed back the stray fringe that hung wetly in front of his eyes as he walked back to his dorm to deposit his Quidditch things.  
  
Of course, Draco had seen Ron Weasley sneaking around behind the hedges lining the pitch during Slytherin's practice session. The redheaded twit had been trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible, to no avail — he looked like a walking bushfire amidst the branches stripped of leaves. It was certainly not the best method of camouflage, and Draco sniggered to himself at how ridiculous Ron had actually looked, creeping around like that.  
  
But at the same time he also remembered Ron's words to him the day before, lanced with spite and bitter malice: _On the day you finally fall with a mighty crash, know that it is exactly what you deserve.  
_  
Draco closed his eyes and sat down heavily at the foot of his bed, briefly contemplating the horror of what would happen if Weasley found out about his situation with the love potion. The mere thought of the humiliation was enough to make Draco shudder. The rivalry he used to share with Harry was one thing; the hatred that ran between him and Weasley, like a black river extending generations in time, was entirely another. And it had been hard enough to swallow his pride and ask Harry to help him; but if he had to contend with Ron Weasley knowing about this, Draco strongly suspected he would just spontaneously combust.  
  
Harry hadn't told Weasley about the love potion, Draco finally decided with no small measure of unease He couldn't have. Draco knew that if Weasley did find out, he certainly wouldn't have the decency to keep it to himself, and the next moment the whole of Hogwarts would know about it, and his father— Draco broke off in mid-thought, not even wanting to think further about that. No, Harry _wouldn't_ tell Weasley. Or would he?  
  
Draco thought of the first time he'd challenged Harry to a wizard's duel in their first year, yet secretly tipped Filch off that the Gryffindors would be out of bed in the trophy room. He still remembered why he'd done such a cowardly thing, because the truth was that he'd been intimidated by Harry, the slight, scrawny black-haired boy who had so coolly refused his hand of friendship. And when Harry had unexpectedly agreed to face off with him in a wizard's duel, Draco had privately panicked — and because he hadn't been assured that _he_ would win, all he had wanted was to make sure _they_ would lose. He'd wanted to watch Harry get into trouble, to be stripped of the glory that seemed to come to him so effortlessly.  
  
_Know that it is exactly what you deserve._ Ron's words again, ringing on the fringes of his consciousness, echoing an ominous acceptance deep within him. For all the things he'd ever done to Harry, for all the malicious words he'd hurled in Harry's direction... maybe Weasley was right, for once. Maybe this was what he deserved. Or maybe it was just the love potion talking.  
  
And last night. It had taken every ounce of willpower to restrain himself from doing anything that might give Harry the impression that he was a sex-deprived maniac fishing for some kicks. Of course, for his part Harry didn't seem at all inclined to entertain any more snogs — but Draco realised that he no longer just wanted to kiss Harry for the mere physical contact. He wanted to feel Harry behind the kiss, to feel something other than unresponsive lips frozen by shock or repulsion; he didn't want to know which, although it was likely a combination of both.   
  
The love potion no longer throbbed through him like a live current whenever Harry was around; instead, it had subsided to a dull aching pulse, like static electricity, alternately freezing streams of thought then jerking them into a tailspin. It was a matured sort of pain now, like a chronic condition that was starting to infiltrate his bones into the marrow — and this insidious tide of chemical poison scared him more than ever, because he was starting to _forget_ how he used to hate Harry. Now all he could remember was the twistingly empty emotion that flamed like cold fire each time Harry came close to him; a hollow image of love, like the reflection of smoke in mirrors, but still, love nonetheless.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
"What the _hell?_"  
  
Harry stared at Draco, first surprise then realisation and finally indignation spreading over his face. Draco eyed him calmly, a tentative smile lifting the edges of his mouth, and he looked almost amused as Harry took one more angry glance at the rolled-up parchment Draco held in his own hand, then started yelling at him.  
  
"What the hell are you trying to do, Malfoy?" Harry's voice flared with rage, and he snatched the scroll out of Draco's unresisting hand. "Do you want to get me into trouble again? Are we back to status quo, where I'm actually supposed to spend my time watching my back for your cheap dirty tricks, instead of helping you find out about love potions? Is that it?"  
  
Draco looked mildly shaken by Harry's furious tirade. "No," he answered, his tone of voice quietly conciliatory. "I just wanted to talk to you, that's all. I can't seem to find any other time that you're alone."  
  
"Oh," Harry said sarcastically. "I see. You steal my homework and get me sent out of class for it, but that's all okay because you know, my mid-term grade doesn't really matter that much, not to you at least." He glared venomously at Draco. "_Honestly_, Malfoy! Is everything just about _you?_ Do you want to make me a genie while you're at it, so you can stuff me into a bottle and summon me whenever you just want to talk for a bit?"  
  
Draco chewed on his lower lip, feeling mildly remorseful — Transfiguration class was in progress right now, and he'd furtively performed a Summoning Spell while McGonagall's back was turned and had taken Harry's homework assignment off her table without her noticing. As a result, she'd queried Harry about his failure to submit his homework, upon which Harry had protested that he did hand it up, and the Professor had told him to go back to his dormitory to look for it. Flustered and baffled by the mysterious disappearance of his homework scroll, Harry had left the classroom, upon which Draco had also excused himself to go to the bathroom and had chased after Harry, finally catching up with him here on the third-floor corridor, near the statue of the humpbacked one-eyed witch.   
  
"I'm not stealing your homework," Draco protested weakly, carefully taking into account how mad Harry seemed— and likely was— with him. "I was going to put it back."  
  
"You know, why don't you try that concept with other people's money next time, and let me know from Azkaban whether that's a good excuse or not." Harry said coldly.  
  
Draco took a deep breath to calm himself, so that he wouldn't snap something nasty and get Harry even more hacked off at him. "Look," he said slowly, meaningfulness burning strongly in his eyes, "it's already Monday. The match is in two days' time, Potter, and I still haven't found anything that might work yet. I just wanted to ask if you had any ideas," Draco paused, and added, "any at all."  
  
Harry's expression softened slightly; he understood Malfoy's desperation, because truthfully it mirrored some of his own urgency, which was why he'd been regularly checking if Hermione had made any progress with finding an antidote for the love potion. Headway was still slow as yet, although she said that she had a few possible leads.  
  
Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair, pushing his fringe out of his eyes; standing across from him Draco blandly wondered how such a casual gesture of running fingers through hair could ever seem even remotely erotic — which it did, almost painfully so. Of course, only Harry could have such an effect on him. His every movement seethed with dark allure, that natural magnetism which drew out the mercurial potion rising in his blood, making him ache as if from an assault of a phantom blade.  
  
"There doesn't seem to be any antidote to the love potion listed anywhere in the magical reference books, at least those that we could get our hands on," Harry was saying, and Draco jerked back to the present as a single word jarred him, bringing his drifting thoughts back into sharp focus.  
  
"_We?_" Draco interrupted pointedly, his eyes cutting over to Harry's, his gaze piercing.   
  
Harry hesitated for a moment; his cheeks coloured imperceptibly, as if embarrassed that he had divulged something he hadn't intended to, but when he spoke his voice was calm and composed. "I asked Hermione to help me with the research."  
  
Draco felt his heart slam up against his ribcage with a sickening crack, and for a moment his pulse ground to a dead halt, before stilted blood flooded back through his veins with a rush of thunder. "_You told her?_"  
  
Harry raised his chin almost defiantly. "If anyone can help with this, Hermione can. And she's trustworthy enough to keep a secret, which is more than I can say about you."   
  
Draco vaguely wondered if Harry was alluding to the incident with Hagrid's dragon, in their first year. But right now he was too horrified by the revelation that he and Harry weren't the only two living souls who knew about what happened, that Harry, whom he trusted for some insane reason, had gone and told Granger, who probably had the heartiest laugh in her life over it.  
  
Draco swore in frustration and kicked the flagstone wall next to them for good measure, his foot narrowly missing the corner of the one-eyed witch's pedestal. "I can't believe you told Granger! What the hell were you thinking, Potter? Didn't I tell you to keep this absolutely secret?"  
  
"No you didn't, actually," Harry retorted, annoyance and irritation sparking in his clear green eyes, "I think most of the time, before you even got to that bit, you'd give up talking and start kissing me instead."  
  
"Fuck you, Potter," Draco hissed, taking a step forward, black fire in his eyes.   
  
Anger peaked like sharp spikes of seething hot metal, and Harry roughly shoved Draco backwards; his back hit the wall with a solid impact that must have hurt, although Draco showed none of the physical pain, only hints of another kind of suffering that smoked like a hidden fire in his eyes.  
  
"You are coming dangerously close to pissing me off like no one has ever done before." Harry snarled, rage mixed with disgust burning like a smouldering flame behind his dark green eyes, like circles of charred grass. "Then again, you're already the current record-holder, so don't push your limits, Malfoy."  
  
Draco's chest swelled with suppressed fury, and he glared daggers at Harry. "Have you ever wondered why I never even thought to approach any of the professors to ask for help, that I'd actually ask _you_ instead of Snape, for instance, who'd know a hell of a lot more about love potions? Do you know how serious things will be if this gets out to the rest of Hogwarts? All it takes is for someone to report this to the school authorities, and _guess whose father is on the board of governors?_" Draco's voice was raised now, with an almost hysterical note to it. "Do you have _any_ idea what's going to happen to me if my father finds out?"  
  
"Hermione's not going to report this to any of the teachers!" Harry answered angrily, looking thoroughly infuriated. "She's my friend and I trust her, and I know that if she promises to keep it to herself, she _will._"  
  
"I'm not so sure about that." Draco's voice was edged with bitter cynicism; he suddenly became almost painfully aware of the weight of Harry's palm pressing against his chest, which sent a shivering thrill through him like fiery adrenaline. "Can't you bloody see? She hates me, Potter, and you've just given her the perfect way to get back at me."  
  
"Your past sins catching up with you, are they?" Harry's voice was icy, his tone smugly detached. "Maybe this'll make you think twice about calling Hermione a Mudblood, or sneering at Ron's family again."  
  
Another thought suddenly occurred to Draco, so terrible and dreadful that it drained his anger like mist vanishing into a furnace, and he slumped back against the wall as despair and a cold, sinking horror overcame him, glacial tides that crystallised his fear and suspended it in a frozen eternity.  
  
"Please say you didn't tell Weasley." Draco's voice sounded numbed and distant, and utterly defeated.   
  
Harry blinked, mildly startled; this was the first time he had ever heard Draco say 'please'. Draco had never said it before, not even when he'd asked Harry for help — and Harry watched the spectrum of pain that danced across Draco's face, bleak realisation and crumbling pride and sheer hopelessness, a black dawn of darkness and misery. And after he'd seen Malfoy take everything so far in his stride with forced calm, Harry also knew the breaking point when he saw it, and he knew this would be the ultimate humiliation, more than Draco would be able to bear — if Ron knew about the love potion, Ron who was Draco's enemy in a far more entrenched way than Harry had ever been.  
  
"No," Harry said, and surprised himself at the gentleness in his tone; he saw Draco look up, a flare of hope in his pale eyes. Harry felt his own anger ebb away, subsiding as quickly as it had risen, because it was incredibly hard to remain wrathful in the face of such desolation. "No, I didn't tell him. And neither did Hermione."  
  
Contrary to what Harry had expected, a look of immense relief didn't wash across Draco's face, nor did the spark of hope ignite in Draco's eyes of frozen grey, which remained dull and misted like frosted glass. Harry couldn't quite read the emotion that shimmered behind them. Draco's expression remained downcast, even in the face of Harry's reassurance; it was as if that moment of horror had been so stark and desolate that it struck as deep as reality would have, and Draco was still reeling from the impact, like the lack of resilience in a spring that had been stretched too far past its elastic limit.  
  
Harry's words served to substantially alleviate the hysteria that had spiralled through Draco at the mention of Ron — now he closed his eyes, and the leaden realisation of his own vulnerability brought on a new, frantic tide of panic. And Draco was scared, all of a sudden, of how much this situation had taken away his control over himself; how easily other people could now affect him, and make him feel things that he had never felt before, not to this intensity — feelings of fear and horror, as well as of longing and desire.  
  
Draco realised that Harry's hand was still resting against his chest; the scar of the knife-wound stirred under Harry's touch, an intimate connection between them forged in a covenant of blood. The unconscious placement of Harry's hand against the scar brought a curious onslaught of sensation, which burned but wasn't hurtful, a numbed flame only stoking his confusion, and Draco shuddered involuntarily.  
  
Harry saw Draco flinch slightly, as if from pain, and he suddenly remembered that his hand was pressing down on the place that the knife had sliced apart — quickly he withdrew his hand, and stared at Draco with renewed concern. "Did I hurt you?"  
  
_What an ironic question,_ Draco thought colourlessly, even as he felt Harry's fingers gingerly brush against his robes, at the place just covering the scar. _Every single moment that we're together, you're hurting me, even though you don't know it.   
  
_Harry gently pushed the fabric of Draco's robes away, baring part of Draco's left shoulder in a decent fashion; in an almost clinical manner he carefully inspected the scar, which had now faded to a pale silvery streak barely visible against Draco's fair skin. Draco closed his eyes as he surrendered to the fluid touch of Harry's hands moving lightly over his skin in an accidental caress, and it felt like heaven, dreams of gold and…  
  
Behind closed lids the familiar dreams came to life, the seductive companions of his nights, scorched into his mind like burning honey leaving a bitter aftertaste; Draco felt himself slip from reality's feeble grasp as he let himself drown in the living dreams, as —   
  


> _Harry's hands were sliding up his arms, and Harry was leaning close to him, whispering words against his lips that tasted sweet and sour like wine, intoxicating him. Harry's fingers were trailing teasingly along the blade of his shoulder, pushing away his clothes, letting them drop carelessly away. The heat of Harry's palms against his bare skin was making him shiver; Harry's hands were stroking across his chest, and Harry was kissing his mouth with a tenderness that melted the coldness within him, filling him with such wonderful warmth. He was gasping softly in response, helpless with pleasure, and Harry's tongue was running slowly along his lower lip; his own hands were moving to link themselves around Harry's neck, drawing them closer together, and only then did he finally feel whole, complete..._

  
Draco's eyes flashed open, and he abruptly moved toward Harry, breaching the short distance between them. Harry blinked, letting his hands drop from resting on Draco's shoulder where he was examining the scar; all of a sudden they were so close that Draco's hands were brushing against his own, which were now held rigidly by his side.   
  
Harry drew a deep calming breath, then started to ask, "Malfoy, what's—"  
  
"I have these dreams," Draco said abruptly, cutting Harry short; Harry could feel the warmth of Draco's body aligned against his, and although Draco was speaking at no louder than a whisper, his voice was all that Harry could hear, so close were they standing. Draco's eyes seemed distant and unfocused, and he continued, "I dream of you, and in these dreams you're—"  
  
"Malfoy," Harry said quietly, although he didn't move away, nor push Draco aside. "We have a class to attend."  
  
Of course, Harry could never truly understand. Draco looked deep into Harry's eyes, pure green as emerald, emerald which was supposed to heal and protect, but instead exposed him to such vulnerability, over which he had no control. Where he stood Draco could breathe the gentle scent that was so uniquely Harry; blinded by impulse and desire he leaned in, and his mouth brushed against Harry's unresponsive lips for the whisper of a moment—  
  
_Every time I kiss you, it hurts.  
_  
Draco's manner had been insistent before, but not forceful like this; Harry was startled, almost alarmed as he felt Draco nudge him up against the wall. Draco's hands were moving swiftly up to hold his face, and Draco was leaning in, his lips closing over Harry's—  
  
"Stop it, Draco." Harry said, more firmly this time, and he turned his face away from Draco, breaking the kiss; Draco seemed to snap out of his daze, and he looked stung as he stepped back, his eyes wide and bright as if with vivid fever.  
  
_Every time you push me away, all I feel is the pain._  
  
Draco took an unsteady step backward, feeling his face flush with embarrassment and unfulfilled desire; not quite lust, but certainly a very intense desire, one which made him want to just throw Harry up against the wall and kiss him until the yearning went away, but Draco knew even that would not be enough to quell the urgings of the potion.   
  
The mild shock of Draco's sudden aggressiveness wore off, and Harry felt a wave of sympathy as he saw the wretched look on Draco's face, the silent torture of dreams which just couldn't coalesce with reality — Harry knew how disturbing they could be, how the invisible threads of dreams could enmesh and complicate reality. _Altered_ reality, in Draco's case.  
  
"Look," Harry said, watching Draco carefully, "Hermione has been doing lots of research over the weekend, and she reckons she's got a few leads which might get us somewhere. I really think you should talk to her directly about this — and I will personally throttle you if you're horrid to her, because she's been working very hard just to help us. Without her, I don't think I'd have the time to sift through all those spellbooks, and neither would you, with all the Quidditch practice we're having. So you owe her big time, Malfoy."  
  
Draco had a faraway look in his eyes as he shrugged, almost uncaringly. "Whatever you think is best."   
  
To Draco, it didn't matter now even if Harry allowed him to kiss him again. The void of emptiness might be filled, but only for the fleeting moments when he held Harry, when he was awash with the sensation of being so close to him, tasting the dizzying sweetness of Harry's mouth, feeling the invigorating heat of his body. But when Harry would finally push him away once more, breaking the intimacy like a whisper shattering silence, everything would collapse and fade back to the shadows of desolation.   
  
Everything would fall apart.  
  
Harry cast a wary look around — thankfully, everyone was safely in class, so their present little interlude would probably go unnoticed by any student. But Filch was a different matter… and McGonagall might start to wonder what was taking him so long.  
  
Harry glanced at his watch. "I'll be busy with classes and Quidditch practice for the rest of today, so how about tomorrow, after lunch? We've booked the pitch again in the afternoon but I can squeeze out some time to meet you, and Hermione can be there too." Harry privately noted that this way, Ron would probably be too occupied with Quidditch practice to notice his brief disappearance and Hermione's absence. "Hopefully by tomorrow Hermione'll have more ideas to share with us."  
  
"What she doesn't?" Draco asked blandly, and his voice was hollow. "How if there just isn't any way to cure this?"  
  
"Don't say that. It's really not helping." Harry gave Draco a severe look. "Can't you be a little more enthusiastic and positive about this?"  
  
"Enthusiastic?" Draco echoed morosely. "I'm poisoned by a love potion, and every time I see you I just want to die. If enthusiasm was contagious, Potter, then I'm definitely immune."  
  
"Just..." Harry trailed off, and then heaved a weary sigh. "Just have a little faith, will you? I'm also trying my best to find a way through this, you know."  
  
"I know." Draco said softly, slanting a glance up at Harry, lowered lashes effectively obscuring the emotion in his eyes. Then he reached out and took the Transfiguration essay out of Harry's hand. "I'll go back first and replace this on her table so that when you come in, it's already there, and she'll just think she missed it while checking through earlier."  
  
Harry watched Malfoy abruptly turn and walk away, his soft footsteps betraying his downcast soberness; yet, Draco still held himself with remarkable poise, each step measured and decisive, so contrary to the confusion in his mind which was all too evident to Harry. It was a marvel that Draco's pride was still intact, even though his control was in shreds; he still looked so composed, even though Harry knew he was slowly coming to pieces from within, a slow-motion shattering — and Harry also knew his own presence only catalysed the steady disintegration of Draco's resolve.  
  
_If we don't find a way out of this fast, _Harry thought grimly, _things might become too serious for us to handle, and someone might end up getting hurt. Badly._  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
"Well." Harry cleared his throat, wishing the tense, distrustful atmosphere would clear as well. He looked from Draco to Hermione, sitting opposite each other, both occupied with exchanging hostile, guarded looks.  
  
They were in the empty Charms classroom after lunch on an overcast Tuesday, the eve of the Gryffindor-Slytherin clash. Harry had arranged for the private little meeting between the three of them, which from the looks of it, would not proceed very smoothly at all. Hermione had grumbled that she had to carry her books all the way to the Charms classroom, and Draco had been looking sullen ever since he stepped into the room ten minutes ago. Neither of them had said a word directly to each other, and Harry was starting to wonder if this had been such a good idea after all.  
  
"Well," Harry said again, shooting Hermione an imploring glance; she still refused to look straight at Malfoy, and instead grabbed a book from the top of the stack and began flipping through it.   
  
"Well what, Potter?" Draco prompted crossly; he had his arms crossed over his chest and was looking bored and impatient. "Are we here for a yoga meditation session, or is actual talking on the agenda anytime soon?"  
  
Hermione put her book down, and glared venomously at Draco, her dislike plainly apparent. "You know, if you've got nothing decent to say, it takes less effort _not_ to say it."  
  
"Ah, our fair maiden speaks." Draco offered a smirk, "I was beginning to wonder if you'd actually fallen asleep sitting up."   
  
"Enough!" Harry interjected, shooting Draco a quelling look. "Malfoy, get back in line and stop irritating Hermione. She's trying to figure something out."  
  
"'Trying' being the operative word here." Draco sniped back contemptuously, the familiar malice glinting in his eyes.  
  
Hermione's eyes sparked with anger and she looked on the verge of saying something in retort before Harry swiftly cut in. He muttered a few words to Hermione to ask her to calm down, then he proceeded to grab Draco by the arm, yank him roughly to his feet and propel him out of the classroom.   
  
When they were outside, Harry spun Draco around and slammed him up against the corridor wall with such force and abruptness that Draco let out a soft gasp of surprise. Harry gripped a handful of Draco's shirt collar, and shook him, though not viciously; Harry's eyes shone with a mix of fury and exasperation, and Draco could feel the intensity of his emotion running like live current through the point where Harry's fist was nudged up against his chest.  
  
"What the hell was that for, Malfoy?" Harry snarled, jerking his head back at the classroom by way of gesture. "She's actually trying to help you, do you know that? Hermione's got a lot better things to do than dig through stacks and stacks of books just to find out more about love potions and whether there's any _conceivable_ way out of this mess — she's got no reason to do this for you, given how horrid you've been to her, and still are!"  
  
"I don't trust her, that's why!" Draco shot back, giving voice to his truthful feelings. "Just because she's brainy and conversant with books, does that mean I'm supposed to entrust my life into her hands? I don't even _know_ her, for god's sake!"  
  
"That's right," Harry retorted, fiercely defensive. "You _don't_ know Hermione. Because if you did, you'd know that she's about the kindest, most self-sacrificing friend you can ever find. You'd know that she'll stand by your side no matter what you do, even if she strongly disapproves of it, but just because you're her friend, she'll be willing to weather the storm with you, regardless of what it takes." Harry paused to draw a deep breath, and his voice quivered with suppressed rage. "You don't know her, Malfoy, and you owe her a lot more than you think, starting with an apology. So the least you can do now is show her the respect she deserves."  
  
Draco actually had the grace to look slightly subdued as Harry escorted him back into the classroom; Hermione glowered at him as he took his seat, but he avoided her eyes and suddenly became avidly interested in a tiny beetle crawling on the edge of a desk, which he began prodding with the tip of his wand, muttering a spell under his breath. The beetle's wings hummed, and it seemed to want to take flight but under the influence of Draco's wand, didn't seem to be able to do so. It twitched and buzzed on the spot.  
  
"Stop that!" Hermione said shrilly, staring at the beetle with horror in her eyes; memories of the spider she had witnessed being tortured by the fake Mad-Eye Moody were still all too vivid. "Quit it, Malfoy!"  
  
Draco raised his wand, and whatever spell he had uttered was broken; the beetle whirred its wings feebly, in an injured way, before crawling away to safety as fast as it could. Draco listlessly watched it escape, aware of Harry and Hermione's horrified looks fixated on him. He returned their startled gazes with a bland expression, and shrugged nonchalantly, as if to say _What the hell are you staring at?_  
  
Hermione looked mildly shaken; Harry leaned over and whispered something to her, comforting words to calm her somewhat. Draco found himself strangely unsettled, almost angered by seeing that tender, intimate sort of gesture of Harry leaning over to whisper in Hermione's ear, even though it was purely platonic between them — it re-awakened a volatile yearning within him, thrilling through his veins with each heartbeat, bearing the poison that ran through his blood, into his soul.   
  
Giving Malfoy another appalled, scandalised look, Hermione turned her attention back to a scrap piece of parchment tucked neatly into one of the books. "Well, I've got some news to report on what I've found so far," she announced.  
  
"Good news or bad?" Draco asked in a dull tone.   
  
Hermione cut him a sharp, unyielding glance, and without missing a beat said, "I suppose it has to be good, since the fact that this has everything to do with you more than fulfils the bad news quotient."  
  
"What did you find?" Harry quickly chipped in, before Draco could verbalise a retort; he was regretting ever imagining that Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy could spend even five minutes together in the same room without one of them getting inflated and stuck on the ceiling. Right now, Harry was the one keeping the ungainly peace.  
  
Hermione picked up another book and flipped it open to a page that she'd dog-eared. "I managed to find the source of that Latin quote inscribed in Malfoy's spellbook. The reason that there weren't any references to it in any of the magical spell concordances, is because its origin is actually from an epic Muggle poem, which dates all the way back to the first century BC."  
  
"_Muggle?_" Draco interrupted, looking disgusted. "But it's an ancient _pure_-magic potion, isn't it? Why does it even have anything Muggle-related?"  
  
Hermione looked distinctly ticked off by Malfoy's tactlessness. "I think it's deliberate," she answered, giving Draco a very pointed look, "it just goes to show that the reach of the love potion is ubiquitous — whether you're wizard or Muggle, you aren't immune to the effects of induced love. Which does make perfect sense, in my opinion."  
  
To Hermione's surprise, Draco didn't contest her statement, just remained silent. She also noticed that his gaze lingered on Harry, who didn't see Draco staring at him, being too absorbed in what she was explaining. Hermione made a bemused mental note of the way Draco was looking at Harry, then continued, "Anyway, there's some pretty interesting mythology woven around that quote."  
  
"What's the myth about?" Harry queried, looking interested.   
  
"Well," Hermione consulted a brief summary she'd written out, "legend has it that a Greek maiden, Laodamia, married Protesilaus, the king of Phylace. However, Protesilaus had to leave Laodamia behind shortly after their wedding to go and fight in Troy, where he was a battle commander. But an oracle had also prophesied that the first Greek man to touch Trojan soil would also be the first to die."  
  
"Let me guess." Draco rolled his eyes. "This Protesilaus guy leaps onto the shore the minute they arrive, all gung-ho about it. Or better still, he misunderstands the oracle, so jumps off the boat and swims all the way to shore, thinking he'll win a prize for landing first. Is that how it goes?"  
  
"Well," Hermione conceded reluctantly, in a very dignified sort of way, "that's actually pretty much what happened, though not as ludicrous as Malfoy's description of events. Some stories state that the Greeks learned of the prophecy and, upon arrival at Troy, were hesitant to land. Protesilaus, however, heroically leapt ashore and cut down several Trojans. Other stories said that the Greeks were unaware of the prophecy and Protesilaus was the first ashore merely out of eagerness."  
  
Draco snorted in triumph, and made a noise that sounded like "Ha! That silly git."  
  
"Whatever the case," Hermione continued, "the prophecy still held true, and Protesilaus was soon the first Greek to die on Trojan soil." She actually almost sounded sorrowful at this. "After learning of his death, Laodamia mourned her lost husband to such an extent that Hermes himself consented to bring Protesilaus back to the land of the living for three hours, so that they could be together for one last time."  
  
Harry frowned slightly. "And where does the Latin quote figure into all of this?"  
  
"A poet named Propertius describes the undying, enduring love that exists between Protesilaus and Laodamia in a poem in the first book of his _Elegies,_ and that's where the Latin quote appears." Hermione consulted the notes she had penned. "_Traicit et fati litora magnus amor __—_ when translated, it reads along the lines of 'A great love passes through the shores of fate.'"  
  
"Something like that," Draco muttered to himself. He looked up at Hermione, a veiled expression of bored defiance in his eyes. "Then what happens? They are reunited and live happily ever after with the blissful knowledge that the story of their romance will be repeated, ad nauseum, in all generations to come?"  
  
"No," Hermione replied, giving Draco a simmering glance. "After the three hours were up, Protesilaus was to die again, and so Laodamia threw herself onto his funeral pyre, and died with him."  
  
There was a brief stunned silence at the violent, abrupt denouement to the tragic tale.  
  
"That sure is a cheerful story," Draco finally remarked in a sarcastic drawl, "It really uplifts our spirits, because it's not like we've been all that lively of late."  
  
"Malfoy," Harry snapped warningly, and Draco shifted in his seat and tried his best to ignore the sharp look Harry was giving him. Harry turned back to Hermione. "What do you think is the significance of the myth?"  
  
"Maybe we're supposed to go toast ourselves for a bit," Draco suggested unhelpfully, "you know, like a baptism of fire. Really meaningful and all that."  
  
"Oh, _please_, be my guest," Hermione snapped, her voice thinly controlled. "We'd get a whole lot more work done if you just went away and boiled your head. Maybe the rest of yourself too, while you're at it."  
  
Before Draco could find something to say to that, Harry took one glance at his watch and groaned. "I'm late for Quidditch practice — I really have to leave now." He paused, then caught Hermione's horrified expression. "What? What's wrong?"  
  
"You're leaving? You're leaving for Quidditch practice _now?_" Hermione seemed positively aghast. "You're not actually going off and abandoning us here, are you?"  
  
"Um," said Harry uneasily, "that was pretty much what I meant when I said 'leaving', although 'abandoning' does sound rather harsh."  
  
"Harry," Hermione said firmly, shooting a sharp, meaningful look at Harry. "Can I talk to you for a moment — outside?"  
  
"Attack of the conscience, Granger?" Draco commented caustically, as both Harry and Hermione got to their feet. "Don't recall you ever having any qualms about criticising me to my face."  
  
Hermione ignored him, and took Harry by the arm and tugged him out of the classroom, shutting the door noisily after them. She turned to look at him, disbelief and exasperation in her eyes. "I can't believe this — you're going off and leaving me alone with Malfoy?"  
  
"I can't help it," Harry said apologetically, a pleading look in his eyes, so earnest that it softened Hermione's annoyed expression. "I have to go for Quidditch practice now, or Ron and the others will start to wonder where I am and come looking for me." He paused. "Just don't let Malfoy get to you, Herm — I've talked to him already, and I don't think he's in a real position to be incisively nasty."  
  
"This certainly is an exciting prospect for the afternoon." Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, and looked fractiously at Harry. "I disclaim all responsibility for any bodily injuries Malfoy may receive for being the horrid, insufferable git that he is. He already holds the dubious honour of being the only person I've ever slapped before in my life."  
  
"Don't worry, you'll manage." Harry cracked a wry, tired grin; and as he turned to leave, he added softly, "Thanks a lot, Hermione."  
  
"Hmmph," was all Hermione huffed in response; with another quick smile, Harry hurried off along the corridor and disappeared down the stairwell at the far end.  
  
Hermione stood where she was for a few long moments, watching Harry leave.   
  
_How did I get myself into this? _she asked herself, with no small measure of chagrin. _I'm now going to be stuck with Malfoy for the better part of this afternoon. Or should I say, the worst part. If not for Harry..._ her mental voice trailed off, and she closed her eyes, strengthening her resolve. _I'm doing this for Harry, not Malfoy._ She reckoned that she would do well to constantly remind herself of this. _For Harry._  
  
Hermione sighed as she turned and walked ruefully back to the Charms classroom. She drew to a halt in front of the closed door, and took a few deep breaths to regain her composure; she had a strong feeling that she was going to need every ounce she could muster.   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
In the next chapter, find out how Draco and Hermione get along by themselves, without Harry to mediate for them - perhaps they have more in common than they think. Also, the pivotal Quidditch match finally arrives - what happens and who wins the match? Many more entanglements to come, that's for certain!   
Also, a bar of Honeydukes chocolates to the first person who correctly guesses where the quote at the start of the chapter came from.   
  
  
^ ^ ^ ^ ^   
  
To my betas, Heidi and Minx.   
  
and the reviewers! ~  
  
A'jes' Blue (_Love your writing. more Percy/Oliver, please!_), Kei (_have a wonderful holiday!),_ beth, karina (_and the tension just keeps building, doesn't it?_), J. L. Matthews, Silverfox, Moriel (_more on the healing to come, nice speculations!_), Melissa and Carol Anne (_who reviewed on the C&R list_) Nora, Luckfire (_thanks for your reviews for my other stories_), Mir-kitty, princess_katrina (_delightfully long review. loved it!)_, Al (_the quote was from Snatch, by the way)_, Amanita Lestrange, Firebolt909, Keieru (_"poetry and magic and blood"... I like that!_), Amber, Bec (_consummation, eh? the possibilities..._), Hype (_great to have you back again!_), Zuzanny, Misako (_nice art and spinoff!_), plumeria (_so you'll get to read IP7 before your vacation!_), nikalee, Teek (_Ron? sexy? with Draco around? *g*_), LadyJenBug, Viola (_*glomps* So happy to have you back!),_ Gwendolyn Grace (_glad you enjoyed the imagery!), _Just Silver, Emily (_you warped, hilarious girl, you! *hug*),_ Jedi Boadicea (_"just snog already" is pretty much the popular sentiment, too!), _Aura*Potter, Black Goddess, Juniper (_bloodsport, eh?), _Lindsay Beth, Briana Lupin, Amethyst (_a minor cameo for you on the ring! *g*)_, The Water Warrior, Ayanami R., Tenshi no Shikyo, Sinziana-Snape (_glad this story changed your view of slash),_ Echo, Rosmerta (_and there was more snogging *g*)_, Tessie, Mina Jade (_ah, rings and romance! *g*), _Gileonnen (_thanks for the nice review!)_, Laura, Adelina, CatFish, Padfoot Lover, Di-chan, Mathieu-Russell, Sarah-chan, I_Wuv_Ron, Eloria, Erica, Hillary Bean, ~*Fluff*~ , Lelio, Invisigoth, Destiny, Kix, Yuubou, Jewel, Allie, Raggona, Otaku_Neev, Lyra, Gunbunny, Hermione Malfoy, weezl pete, nicki (_let me know which stories you want to archive)_, Stranger, tweety Luna Tiger, Cat Samwise, Becks, Erebus, darkangel hart, Shichiseishi_bandit...   
  
...thanks for reviewing! :)   
  
  
---  
  



	8. Falls Apart

Irresistible Poison, Chapter 8: Falls Apart, by Rhysenn

  
A/N: It's been too long since the last chapter, ack. Blame exams. Anyway, in this part— the much-anticipated Quidditch match arrives! Some of you have been speculating about a D/H/Her love triangle— no, that's not where this is heading. It's hard enough handling Harry and Draco together without figuring in any other romantic pairings!   
  
The quote for this chapter is from the inimitable Oscar Wilde.   
  
  
  
**Irresistible Poison   
Chapter Eight: Falls Apart**  
  
  
_And love's the noblest frailty of the mind. _  
  
  
Draco looked up as Hermione stalked back into the classroom, _sans_ Harry, and strode over to sit in the chair furthest away from him. She seemed unsettled, not quite as composed as she usually was; she crossed her arms over her chest and sat there glowering at him. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded Malfoy with an expression of mild distaste, and she started, "I cannot _believe_ that—"  
  
"—that I am stuck here with you for the entire afternoon," Draco finished for her, with a perfect imitation of her offended tone of voice. He rolled his eyes at her, and continued in a bored drawl, "Yes, I know, Granger, my sentiments exactly. Now, moving right along— what's next on the agenda of insults? Oh yes, you're supposed to start telling me what a snobbish, despicable git I am."  
  
Hermione glared at him. "I've got better things to do than pick petty fights with you, Malfoy." Her tone was mildly haughty, and she determinedly picked up a book and held it up in front of her face, shielding Draco from her view. "Now just shut up and start reading."  
  
"Talking about yourself, you mean? Perfect idea."   
  
Hermione slammed down her book and rose abruptly to her feet, her face flushed with anger. "What is the _matter_ with you, Malfoy? Why can't you keep quiet and not be an intolerable, arrogant, obnoxious egomaniac just for _once_, when everyone else is trying their best to help you?" Her cheeks were flaming with heated rage. "Do you think Harry's having an easy time of this? Does it seem to you like he hasn't enough on his hands, what with Quidditch practice and homework and term assignments, that he'd actually _want _to get involved in this stupid love potion research? Especially when it's for _you?_ Do you know how worried he is, and how much it hurts him to hide this whole screwed-up mess from Ron? Do you have any _idea_ how angry Ron will be if he finds out? Enlighten me, Malfoy, what is it that you can give him that's a good enough reason for him to risk losing his best friend?"  
  
Draco looked stunned at Hermione's furious tirade, and didn't appear to have collected his thoughts enough to form an answer when Hermione answered for him,  
  
"_Nothing!_" she snapped harshly. "You've given him nothing but trouble ever since we started school together. Do you remember the time when you tried to get us caught with Hagrid's dragon? When you challenged Harry to a wizard's duel, only to tip Filch off instead? What kind of a coward does things like that? And to think after all you've done to him, Harry still agrees to help you get out of this love potion fix that _you_ single-handedly got yourself into, which you dragged _him_ in through no fault of his..." Hermione paused to replenish her breath, "...and now, while we're racing against time to find a way out of this before the Quidditch game tomorrow, which is a nearly impossible task, all you do is sit around and make snide remarks and generally irritate the hell out of everyone!"  
  
"Hey, I—" Draco started in protest, but Hermione curtly cut him off.  
  
"I want you to know something, Malfoy— I'm not doing _any_ of this for you. I'm only doing it because I think Harry has far too much on his hands to manage at the moment and I just want to help him out wherever I can. And if, for one moment, you've got some ingeniously horrible plan to use this to hurt Harry in any way, let me advise you to get it _out_ of your head right now. And don't think this is just an empty threat, Malfoy, because I swear, if you backstab Harry after all he's done for you, the only thing left that'll be empty is your cranial cavity."  
  
Hermione sat down and slumped back in her chair, looking winded and exhausted, her cheeks still tinged with an angry rouge. A swift, deathly still silence descended in the room, both tense and awkward, until Draco finally spoke up.  
  
"He's worried about me?" Draco asked softly.   
  
Hermione blinked, momentarily thrown— she'd been bracing herself for a snappy retort to which she would have to think of something cutting in reply. She cleared her throat, which was slightly hoarse from her shouting.  
  
"No," she answered frankly. "He's worried _for_ you, Malfoy, not _about _you." She looked very ruffled, and distinctly annoyed. "Did you hear anything I said after that, or did you lose me after the worried bit? Because I really wasn't done yet."  
  
"I heard you," Draco said, in that same quiet tone. Then he smiled wryly. "That was quite a performance, Granger. Very theatrical and all. I'd say encore, but I think my self-esteem has taken enough of a beating for one afternoon."  
  
"I meant every word of that, Malfoy," Hermione said shortly, fixing Draco with a stern glare. "I don't know what you're up to, and I'll let you know that I have my suspicions about you. But for some strange, bizarre reason, Harry actually _trusts_ you, so this had better be good."  
  
"He trusts me?" Genuine surprise shimmered in Draco's eyes. "Did he actually say that?"  
  
Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. "Does he actually have to _say_ it? Just look at what he's doing. Does Harry look like someone who'd invest his time and energy in something he doesn't truly believe in?" Hermione paused, and gave Malfoy a pointed glance. "Oh, but wait, you don't know him at all, anyway. If you really did, you'd never have done all those horrible things to him. You'd have known what a special person he is, if you'd only given yourself a chance to really _know_ him."  
  
_I did,_ Draco thought to himself, even as Hermione returned to her book and smoothed out the creases where the pages had been crumpled because she had slammed it down on the table earlier. _Of course I could see he was special, and I did give myself a chance to get to know him. But he *rejected* me. And that's all he's been doing ever since._  
  
Rejection was a painful, bitter pill to swallow.  
  
Draco pushed the memories of his first meeting with Harry aboard the Hogwarts Express back into the recesses of his mind— the memory of the coldness in Harry's eyes as he didn't take Draco's outstretched hand, Harry's cool, distant voice as he said _I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks_— and Draco recalled that it was the same, familiar remoteness he still sometimes saw in those clear green eyes.  
  
Thinking about Harry was starting to make him feel distracted all over again, igniting the insistent ache that lurked at the fringes of his consciousness— Draco _had_ to take his mind off Harry, off those shards of emerald pain that sliced deeper than the blade of a knife. He couldn't afford to dwell on those volatile thoughts, not when he was already feeling so unstable, not when they whispered things that were held far beyond his grasp. Dreams that would never, ever, be realised. Yearnings that corroded the soul, unfulfilled.  
  
So, he decided to talk to Hermione, as ridiculous a form of stress-relief as that might have been. He looked up at Hermione, who was deeply absorbed in her book, chewing the tip of her eagle feather quill thoughtfully. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, and she looked completely focused, so _disciplined_— an amusing thought occurred to Draco, and made him smile.  
  
Hermione glanced up, and caught Draco with a roguish grin on his face. "What?" she asked waspishly.  
  
Draco smirked. "I bet Potter made you promise just now not to get mad at me, didn't he?" he said in a knowing voice. "And you just lost your temper and yelled your head off at me. Ha."  
  
"Oh shut up, Malfoy," Hermione snapped peevishly, although it secretly unnerved her how very perceptive Malfoy could be. "You were asking for a good shouting at, the way you were behaving."  
  
"Oh yes. The masochist in me is just desperate for a good spanking."  
  
"Eurgh," said Hermione, pretending she didn't hear Malfoy's last remark.   
  
"Anyway, where did you learn to threaten like that?" Draco asked in a grudgingly impressed tone. "It's pretty effective and, er, vivid."  
  
Hermione allowed a small smile. "When you grow up watching enough Muggle gangster movies, certain colourful phrases sort of stick in your mind and come in rather handy at times." She looked over at the book that Draco was leafing through, and nodded at it. "Why are you reading about Imperius?"  
  
Draco appeared deep in thought for a few moments, before he carefully set the book down and looked squarely at Hermione. "Do you remember the essay I wrote for Lupin's class? About Imperius?"   
  
Hermione nodded. "I remember. You said that love potions are related to the Imperius curse, in some ways. Although there are certain distinctive differences, such as the aspect of complete and constant control, which is a feature of Imperius but not love potions."  
  
"But one of the major similarities between love potion and Imperius is the loss of _conscious_ control, even if to different degrees." Draco paused. "Do you also remember that during Lupin's Imperius practical session, the only three people in class who were able to repel the curse were you, Potter and myself?"  
  
Hermione nodded again. "I managed after a few tries, and Harry— well, he's had practice."  
  
"Well," Draco continued, his voice low and grave, "the difference for me was, I didn't even have to _try_ to fight it. Since I was already under the effect of the love potion, I was immune to any other curses of a similar nature, Imperius being included among them."   
  
Hermione stared at him for a moment as understanding gradually dawned on her. "So..." she trailed off.  
  
Draco looked directly at Hermione, his expression completely serious. "I've never actually been able to fight off Imperius before." His eyes were downcast; he hesitated for a moment, and bit on his lower lip. "My father has drilled me a few times in how to repel Imperius— I've managed to shake it off for about half a minute, but never completely like the way I did in Lupin's class."  
  
Hermione stiffened slightly at the mention of Draco's Dark Arts 'training' back home; it was something she'd suspected all along. "So that's the reason why you managed to fight it off so easily during that lesson." She couldn't help remembering Ron's suspicions about Malfoy, and now she knew that Ron had been partly right— Malfoy's success hadn't been due to his own magical prowess.  
  
"Yes." Draco spoke very softly, and he kept his eyes averted.  
  
"So you get a lot of this kind of 'training' back home, then?" Hermione asked grimly.  
  
"Everyone learns things in their childhood," Draco answered, in a careful, non-committal way. "You pick up useful tough-guy gangster lines, I pick up useful spells to get along in life. Same thing."  
  
"It is _not_ the same thing. The spells you mess with are Dark, and very dangerous— don't even get me started on the love potion, and also, it was a horrible thing you did to that beetle just now." Hermione's tone was a reprimanding one, and she shuddered involuntarily. "Don't ever do that again in front of me again."  
  
"I didn't do anything horrible to it," Draco protested.  
  
"Yes you did. You tortured it. You made it twitch and shudder."  
  
"You call that torture?" Draco let out a derisive snort. "You know, Granger, if one day war breaks out, and you get captured by the enemy... you're in for a big surprise."  
  
Hermione sobered, and started to contemplate the implications of what Draco had told her about the potion. "This love potion is more complex that I had thought. It's immune to the effect of Imperius, has healing powers… anything else I should know about?"  
  
"I'll let you know if I turn into a fluffy white Valentine rabbit at the stroke of midnight, how about that?" Draco answered through clenched teeth, looking very aggrieved.  
  
"That would be a simple and convenient solution," Hermione commented dryly. She took the book from Draco and began scanning through it. "And by the way, I want to borrow your Imperius essay, the one Lupin read out in class. The similarities you highlighted might toss up some interesting inferences, so we can go from there. And it must be worth something, for Lupin to have mentioned it." There was a muted tone of resentment in her voice, though it was not reproachful.  
  
"Have you ever kissed Potter before?" Draco suddenly asked, very unexpectedly.   
  
Hermione blinked, confused for a moment; then she considered the question. "Just the once, on the cheek," she answered, remembering her parting peck on Harry's cheek at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, more than two years back. "And that was some time ago."  
  
Draco shook his head impatiently. "I'm talking about a _proper_ kiss, Granger. On the mouth."  
  
"No, I haven't."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Why not?" Hermione shot him a look. "Because he's my _friend_, that's why not."  
  
"And friends don't kiss?"  
  
"So should I be led to believe that you kiss Crabbe and Goyle on a regular basis?"  
  
Draco sputtered, and made a face at Hermione. "Don't be disgusting, Granger."  
  
"Suits your stupid reasoning." Hermione snapped irritably. "But I hear that _you_ have no qualms about kissing Harry, even though he's _not_ your friend." She paused, and then gave Draco an inquiring look. "But you don't really like him, do you?"  
  
"Of course _not_," Draco retorted, too quickly, his voice flaring with agitation. "What does 'under the influence of a love potion' tell you, Granger? How about 'coerced love'? Of course I don't really love him. Don't be ridiculous."  
  
Hermione arched an eyebrow, and thought, _I asked if you liked him; I never said anything about love._ But she said nothing, and let it pass as a slip of the tongue, a faux pas caused by the intoxication of the potion. Even though love and like were entirely different things altogether.  
  
"So, do you like Pansy Parkinson, then?" Hermione asked, reluctantly curious.  
  
Draco gave Hermione another withering look. "She looks a lot like my grandmother's ancient poodle. Oh yes, really hot and cute, in an ugly, senile sort of way."  
  
"You took her to the Yule Ball," Hermione interjected fairly.   
  
Draco shrugged. "There wasn't much of a choice, was there? There was Millicent Bulstrode, but I didn't quite fancy looking like I was leashed to a walking tree trunk on the dance floor." Hermione stifled a chortle at this; Draco looked mildly annoyed. "And I didn't want to go alone with Crabbe and Goyle, either."  
  
"So you went with Pansy," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "How charitable of you."  
  
"Yep," Draco said airily. "I figured, what the hell. I mean, it's not a big deal, there's just that little blemish between her ears— her face."  
  
"Why didn't you ask someone else from another house, then?" Hermione challenged. "Oh wait, don't tell me— it's the Slytherin pride thing."  
  
"In a way," Draco conceded, with an offhanded shrug. "Actually, my father specifically instructed me that I was to take a pureblood Slytherin to the Ball, no less. Didn't leave many options for me, did it? Unless I went with Blaise Zabini. Maybe I should have, he's quite pretty and not a bad dancer, either. And he'd probably have let me lead, too." Draco paused, and tilted his head. "You know, Slytherins aren't as sexy as they're cranked up to be." Then he offered a lopsided, superior grin. "Of course, myself being the only exception."  
  
Hermione muttered something about Slytherins definitely being as warped as they were cranked up to be, shook her head and went back to reading.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
When he stepped through the portrait hole at quarter to six later that evening, Harry was extremely relieved to find Hermione sitting quietly in the corner of the Gryffindor common room, doing her homework. He went up to her and asked, "So?"  
  
Hermione looked up as Harry collapsed into the chair opposite her. "So, what?"  
  
"So how was it with Malfoy?" Harry asked anxiously, eyeing Hermione appraisingly. "Couldn't have been all that bad, could it? I mean, your presence here signifies that you two successfully refrained from ripping each other to shreds."  
  
Hermione gave him a tired smile, and stretched. "Well, let's see. Malfoy made a snide remark, I lost my temper, and there was a general lot of yelling, most of it done by me, but in the end it worked out quite all right. He was unconscious for the rest of the time, anyway." Hermione burst out laughing at Harry's alarmed look. "Just kidding! He was pretty subdued, really. We actually managed to get some work done, and I found out a thing or two about him as well. I just came back about fifteen minutes ago."  
  
"You found out a thing or two about him?" Harry echoed, sounding mildly incredulous. "You mean both of you were actually on civil, talking terms? At normal volumes?"  
  
Hermione shrugged. "As I said, he wasn't as obnoxious as usual. And he did let slip a few things— about his family, for instance." Her expression darkened. "Lucius Malfoy has apparently been acquainting him with Dark curses— he inflicts them on Draco to train him to fight them off."  
  
There was a significant pause; Harry looked troubled, and he finally said slowly, "So Ron's right, then. Malfoy does know too much about the Dark Arts."  
  
Hermione nodded. "That's very disturbing, and not just because Malfoy probably grew up reciting curses instead of nursery rhymes. What worries me now is exactly that— Malfoy has a fairly strong background in Dark magic, but he still hasn't a clue about how to get around the love potion." She sighed. "I'm not very optimistic about finding a cure to it anytime soon, and definitely not before the game."  
  
Harry groaned. "I suppose it's pointless to hope that the love potion will somehow wear off, given time?"  
  
"Sure. Maybe a lifetime." Hermione sighed heavily, picked up her Potions textbook and began flipping through it; she was finally getting down to work on Snape's project, and she was already way behind schedule. "Look, Harry, we've reached a dead end here. That spellbook of Malfoy's isn't complete enough to base any plans on. The Latin quote turned out to be from a two-thousand-year-old epic poem, and the Greek myth isn't setting off any bells in my mind. And I've gone through every vaguely relevant book there is in the accessible sections of library. There simply isn't any available information that's useful to us."  
  
Harry did some quick thinking. "Do you think there'll be anything useful in the Restricted Section?"  
  
Hermione pondered. "There might be, but I'm not going to put any money on that. It may not be Hogwarts' policy to carry books which give explicit detail on how to concoct a banned potion, even if it's being shelved for research purposes." She paused, considering the scant options they had. "But anything's worth a shot, I suppose— do you think you can get a signed note? Or you can ask Malfoy to get one from Snape— he is the Potions Master, after all."_  
_  
Harry ran his hand through his hair, pushing his fringe out of his eyes. "I'll let Malfoy know the next time I see him," he said wearily. He raised his eyes to look at Hermione, and they were clouded with frustration. "I don't know, Herm. This just feels all wrong."  
  
Hermione glanced up, surprised at the confusion and uncertainty so evident in Harry's voice. "What do you mean, all wrong?"  
  
"I mean, everything's just spinning the wrong way," Harry said, sitting back in his chair. "This whole deal with Malfoy— it's complicating a lot of other things, too. The Quidditch game. Having to worry about Ron finding out. And now, we're stumped as to whether or not there's a cure for the love potion in the first place. And Malfoy—" Harry paused in mid-sentence, as if casting for the right words to express his feelings.  
  
"What about him?" Hermione queried, watching Harry carefully.  
  
Harry hesitated, and then said slowly, "He already seems defeated— do you notice that about him? It's like he's lost hope, even before we know for sure how things will turn out, for better or worse."  
  
_Defeated?_ Hermione wondered with mild incredulity even in her mental voice. _Draco Malfoy, defeated? That's certainly a first. Seems like this love potion sure precipitates a lot of 'firsts'._ She tried to recall Malfoy's demeanour just a while ago— he hadn't exactly seemed _defeated,_ at least not to her. He'd been more sombre and dejected than anything else. But he probably behaved differently with Harry— and unsurprisingly so.   
  
"I think this whole thing has hit him pretty hard," Hermione answered thoughtfully. "I suppose falling in love the _natural_ way is hard enough for most people— but for Malfoy now, it's more along the lines of being _thrown_ into love, and he suddenly finds himself overwhelmed with strange, new feelings which he has no control over." She shuddered slightly. "Just thinking about it is scary enough. I can't imagine actually having to _live_ it. Maybe that's the reason I'm cutting Malfoy some slack here and there."  
  
Harry sighed, and a peculiar mix of unnamed feelings stirred troubled circles in his eyes as he cast a tired glance across the common room. "You know," he said softly, almost to himself, "I'm really not looking forward to the match tomorrow."  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Draco awoke the next morning with a strange feeling of unease churning in the pit of his stomach, like a phantom ache so acutely entrenched that it penetrated the very fibre of his being, dark blood running deeper. He sat up abruptly, and the first coherent though that shot through his dream-slurred mind was that it was the day of the Quidditch match. He groaned softly, and rolled over on his side, closing his eyes, though by no means shutting out the fear.  
  
How Slytherin was going to win the match, Draco had no idea. For starters, he hadn't been able to concentrate on Quidditch practice all week— a handful of times, he'd only narrowly missed the very embarrassing occurrence of being knocked off his broom by a Bludger hit by one of their own Beaters. Of course, Draco had yelled at the guilty Beater for being blind and senseless, but deep inside he knew that he hadn't been paying close enough attention.  
  
And now, of all people to face today, he was playing against _Harry. _He didn't know how the hell he was going to play in an even remotely decent fashion, when all he would be able to think about on the pitch would be how fetching Harry looked, with windswept black hair framing his defined features and a light flush of excitement from the intense flying colouring his cheeks— and of course, Harry's fluid grace on his broomstick, which Draco had found stunning even without the influence of a love potion.   
  
Draco got out of bed, deciding to abandon all thoughts of going back to sleep since it was already dawn anyway. He listlessly opened his drawer and took out his green Quidditch robes; just then, something heavy and metallic, which had been embedded amidst the clothes, fell out and struck the floor with a sharp hollow clang.   
  
It was the handcuff. _Harry's_ handcuff, in all its cruel silver glory.   
  
Draco slowly bent to pick it up; it felt ice-cold to the touch, and rather heavy, as if laden with the dense memories of everything that surrounded its inception. Echoes of distant recollection sounded faintly in Draco's mind as he closed his eyes momentarily, and allowed himself to remember…  
  
_I'm not doing this to humiliate you, Malfoy._   
  
Harry's voice was still vivid in his mind, even the quietly surprised tone that belied his words. So intense were the memories of the scene that Draco could almost feel the way the handcuff had bit into his wrist, coldly mocking; he remembered looking up at Harry, and seeing the burning sincerity in his eyes, which had been so genuine and truthful that the memory of it still remain undefiled by the bitterness which had festered since then.  
  
In retrospect, Draco knew that Harry had meant what he had said, that he had really wanted to help him, not humiliate him. Of course, Harry never lied. But after all this while, Harry's sincerity was what struck Draco the deepest, even slicing past the layers of resentment and hurt and hatred to lay bare a certain realisation on his part, that perhaps Harry _was_ as noble and virtuous and special as he was made out to be.   
  
But each time he allowed himself to dwell on that thought, another irrational part of his mind would scream out that _It's just the love potion talking! And call him Potter, for god's sakes!_, and he would feel the swirling confusion start over again. Perhaps it really was the love potion wreaking havoc on his thoughts and feelings, and the tentative yet heartfelt attraction he felt toward Harry was just induced sentimentality. Because, really, with poisoned blood filtering through his heart with every throbbing pulse, he couldn't quite trust what his heart was telling him anymore.  
  
Sighing heavily, Draco got to his feet and carefully slipped the handcuff back into the drawer, camouflaging it amidst a bundle of socks stockpiled for the winter. A quivering spark shivered through his fingertips as they came into brief contact with Harry's name, etched in the smooth outer surface of the cuff, and whispering thrills involuntarily coursed up Draco's spine.  
  
Controlled. Owned. _Harry's.  
_  
Futilely shaking the scattered thoughts from his head, Draco made his way out of the Slytherin dungeon to take a shower, with the silent, engraved taunt of being the branded possession of _**H J Potter**_ still ringing in his ears, flooding the plains of his consciousness, compounding his helpless desperation.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Hermione lingered just outside the changing rooms, waiting for Harry to fetch his Firebolt from the broom shed. Because the Quidditch match had been rescheduled to a Wednesday instead of the usual Saturday due to the pitch resurfacing work, the school was given the day off to watch the game. It now was a quarter to eleven, fifteen minutes before the match was scheduled to begin, and Ron was already inside, chattering animatedly with the rest of the Gryffindor team as they changed into their scarlet Quidditch robes. Hermione wanted to catch a quick word with Harry before he went in to give his team the usual pre-match pep talk.  
  
Harry appeared, looking decidedly more tense than usual, although his broom was casually slung over his left shoulder, and his own set of Quidditch robes draped over his right arm. He offered a wry grin when he caught sight of Hermione, but it quickly faded into a subdued, troubled expression.   
  
Hermione gave him an encouraging smile. "You feeling all right?"  
  
Harry forced another smile. "Okay, I guess. A little worried. You know."  
  
"Look, Harry—" Hermione's expression sobered considerably, and she wore a grave look of concern as she leaned forward, "I don't know what plan you have in mind, but I think you should just play as normally as you can. Act as if nothing's happened between you and Malfoy— because this match means a lot to Gryffindor, and Ron in particular." She looked searchingly at Harry. "What I mean is, don't just throw away this match, you know?"  
  
"I know," Harry replied tersely, mild agitation edging his tone. "I know what to do, all right?"  
  
"Okay." Hermione gave him an anxious glance, but wisely left it at that. She could sense his apprehension and misgivings about the match, and she wouldn't go so far as to say they were completely unfounded. But she offered him a broad smile to hide her own uneasiness. "It's going to be all right, Harry, don't worry. This is just a game, after all—" she dropped her voice, "and the love potion shouldn't affect it much if both of you just concentrate on playing the match." She patted him on the shoulder. "Give it your best shot, Harry."  
  
Harry's tenseness eased somewhat as he flashed her a quick, grateful smile and nodded, then disappeared into the changing room. Hermione watched him go, then turned and walked back out toward the spectator stands, where students had already gathered; as she rounded a bend, she abruptly came face-to-face with Draco Malfoy.  
  
Hermione stiffened when she saw Draco; she swallowed her first impulse of giving him a cordial nod, and instead, she waited for him to react first. Now that they were in public view of other people, she privately wondered if Draco would be as forthcoming as he had been the day before, when they were alone in the Charms classroom.   
  
Draco drew to a halt, and eyed Hermione appraisingly for a few moments; he didn't greet her, although with the briefest nod he acknowledged her presence, and then gracefully sidestepped her. As he passed her he turned slightly in her direction, and Hermione saw the imperceptible upward curl of the edges of Draco's mouth; he gave her the quickest of enigmatic glances, then, in the blink of an eye, it was as if he hadn't turned to her at all, and he continued on his way to the changing rooms without a backward glance.  
  
Hermione's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she watched his retreating figure. Draco seemed calm and composed enough— even more collected than Harry was, frankly. Hermione was worried, as a thought had occurred to her last night that Harry might give Draco some leeway during the match as consideration, because of the love potion— and knowing Malfoy, as intensely competitive as he was, he might just about be able to separate his feelings from the demanding contest between himself and Harry and play it like a fair, normal game. And when it came to Malfoy, 'fair' still meant a lot of sneaky and devious tactics even without being overtly antagonistic. Essentially, this likely scenario would mean that Harry might end up throwing away a perfectly good match for nothing.  
  
Weighed down with a heavy heart, Hermione made her way up to the top row of stands to join the other Gryffindors. For once, she didn't know what to expect, and this distinctly unsettled her. She wasn't quite sure that Harry would take her advice, either. Truthfully she wasn't even sure if Harry actually really _wanted_ to win the match, or if he was too distracted to be single-minded about victory. Hermione sighed; she supposed that she should feel glad that Draco _seemed_ to be in all right shape, but that only complicated the possible outcome of this mercurial match even further.   
  
Ron materialised from the crowds by her side; he looked cheerful and energised, and he was clearly all geared up for the match ahead. "Hey Herm— the match is going to kick off in a few minutes time— Harry's just having a couple more words with the team. They should be out any moment now."   
  
They reached the top row, where Neville and Dean were already seated, waiting. Ron proceeded to whip out his pair of Omnioculars, which Harry had bought him at the Quidditch World Cup, and began tuning it to the correct settings. Hermione cast him a mildly amused glance— Ron had certainly came to the match well equipped.  
  
Ron scanned the stands, which were now filled with chattering students, the excitement of this crucial clash peaking as kick-off drew closer. He peered through his Omnioculars, adjusting it until he could see the pitch below clearly— he saw the doors to the changing room open, and Gryffindor team marched onto the field, led by Harry.   
  
"They're out!" Ron announced to the others, feeling a surge of anticipation rise within him. From the raised seats it was hard to see the pitch far below, where the two teams had now emerged and were making their way to the centre of the field; however, the Omnioculars efficiently magnified everything to a comfortable size and detail, and Ron's attention gradually fell on Harry.  
  
Ron noticed the pensively troubled expression on Harry's face; he turned to Hermione, and commented, "Harry doesn't look very happy today." He looked in the Omnioculars again, only to see Harry turning his head slightly and staring off into the distance, as if something else far away was holding his attention instead of the match at hand. "Is something bothering him?"  
  
"He's been stressed out lately," Hermione answered equivocally, trying to sound as casual and offhand as she could. She cast a sidelong glance at Ron, wondering if he suspected anything out of the ordinary. "He's been through a lot recently— way too much on his hands with way too little time."  
  
"Hmm, true," Ron answered absently; something else had caught his attention. Ron had turned the direction of his Omnioculars slightly and Draco Malfoy appeared in view, strutting in front of the Slytherin team. Ron's eyes hardened as he saw Malfoy, and he added in a disgusted tone, "Oh, I really hope we flatten Slytherin today. And maybe something unpleasant will happen to Malfoy and wipe that smirk off his face for a really long time."  
  
"_Ron,_" Hermione said sharply. "Don't say things like that. Besides, don't you know that if you curse your opponent before a match, you might just about end up bringing misfortune upon yourself?"  
  
"Faerie myth," Ron scoffed, although he left off detailing what other conveniently nasty things might happen to Malfoy. He kept the Omnioculars trained on Malfoy, watching him critically. "Harry's making his way onto the pitch— oh, just look at the way Malfoy's staring at him. He obviously has something going for Harry."  
  
Hermione smothered a soft noise that sounded like a cross between a snort and a gurgle.   
  
"Are there spells that can be cast just by staring at a person?" Ron continued, oblivious to Hermione's response, too engrossed in what was happening down on the pitch. "Because Malfoy is looking at Harry in a really weird way— he must be trying to hex Harry without him knowing, that bastard! — Harry! Harry! Turn around and look at Malfoy! — ah, now Harry's caught sight of him. Good."  
  
Down on the Quidditch pitch, Harry felt the weight of a gaze fixed upon him. Extricating himself from his conflicting thoughts, he turned around to find Draco looking at him from about fifty feet away, his silver grey eyes lit with the turbulence of a brewing storm. And even across the distance, Harry could somehow sense Malfoy's confusion and quiet anguish, and strangely enough, it mirrored a facet of his own torn feelings about exactly how he was going to approach this particular showdown between them.  
  
Draco saw Harry turn to look at him, and for an eternal moment their eyes met and held; instantly Draco found himself being drawn into those eyes of calm emerald, so far away yet also, impossibly near. They were like jade mirrors, showing nothing but reflecting everything, and in Harry's eyes Draco could feel his own fear and insecurity, the sinking trepidation coiled with the rising tension within him born of the potion in his blood flaring to life, flaying his nerves with a sensation of gentlest agony.  
  
Then Harry looked away, and the fragile perfection shattered to pieces once again.  
  
Madam Hooch had already made her way to the middle of the pitch, and a short blow of her whistle signalled that the teams should get ready for play. She waved the two captains over for the pre-match formalities. Draco slowly walked toward her, and his measured footfalls closing the distance between him and Harry reflected his own apprehension and silent dread.  
  
"All right now, captains, shake hands," Madam Hooch instructed, as Harry and Draco both drew to a halt in front of her.   
  
Harry glanced up at Draco, and seemed to hesitate for a moment— Draco watched him evenly, an ambiguous emotion darting in his eyes. Their gazes met and held again; Draco extended his hand in a slow graceful way, and Harry reached over and grasped it with his own.  
  
The sensation was electric. Draco could feel the warmth of Harry's palm nestled against his own, and the firm pressure exerted by Harry's slim fingers as they closed over his— it was as if that single touch distilled every fibre of emotion they shared, or rather, _he_ felt for Harry. The disconcertion churned to the surface once more as the noise from the impatient crowd in the stands faded to a faint hum in the background, like inarticulate shouting heard from underwater.  
  
Then Harry released his hand, breaking contact, and Draco automatically pulled away and stepped back, trying to push the reckless confusion out of his thoughts, but it still lingered on the frontier of his mind. Draco looked inquisitively at Harry, who wore an impassive expression on his face, and he wondered if Harry had felt the liquid current of emotions that leaked between them— if he had, Harry certainly wasn't showing it. It was amazing how they could both maintain such a distant air of nonchalance, even after they'd been so intimately close those times before.   
  
"Mount your brooms," Madam Hooch was saying; Draco mechanically got onto his broom, all the while watching Harry straddle his Firebolt, noticing the way Harry swung his right leg over the side of the broom handle, and volatile mental images rose unbidden in his mind. _No._  
  
_NO. _Draco repeated to himself, like a feverish mantra, furious at his own lack of control. _Stop thinking about Harry. Concentrate on the damn match. Concentrate.  
  
Harry looks so damn good like this now. And the way he straddles his broom...  
  
*Concentrate*!_  
  
The shrill sound of the whistle, and the match was underway. Gryffindor quickly gained possession as both sides tested the waters, trying to gauge each other's strategy and attacking style. Slytherin vs. Gryffindor had never been an easy tie— the margin of victory, either way, was always slim, all the more accentuating the importance of catching the Snitch as soon as possible.   
  
The weather was the only thing to be joyful about— the skies were clear and cloudless, a crystalline sort of brightness filling an otherwise pale winter morning. The air was crisp and cool, and Harry could feel the gentle sting of the dry breeze caressing his face as he gracefully guided his broom skywards. He glanced around, and saw Malfoy a short distance away, scouring the surroundings for any trace of fluttering gold. Draco seemed perfectly fine, his manner focused and unaffected, although Harry noticed the way Draco was gripping the handle of his broom— very, very tightly, until his knuckles stood out like flecks of snow, as if he was holding on to a lifeline which was slipping from his grasp.  
  
Down below, Seamus Finnigan was commentating: "Gryffindor begins their defence of the title, Seeker Harry Potter takes to the skies on his Firebolt as his Slytherin counterpart Malfoy trails miles behind on— what's that, only a Nimbus? No competition when it comes to brooms, even less so when it comes to talent."  
  
Seamus' commentary was greeted with boos from the Slytherin crowd, and Professor McGonagall crossly leaned over and warned, "Finnigan, personal opinions to yourself!" (Lee Jordan would have been proud of his successor.)  
  
Draco gritted his teeth as he flew in a careful arc, circling the pitch. The rustling wind wasn't strong enough to drown the commentary, and he heard Seamus' less-than-savoury remarks about him. He hated to be reminded of his inferior broom— his father had flatly refused to upgrade his broom until he managed to beat Harry Potter in a Quidditch match, a task that he had yet to accomplish. Draco wasn't quite sure if today was going to improve his chances of getting the latest _Firebolt II,_ which was slated to hit the stores early next year.   
  
Draco stopped listening to the commentary and concentrated on looking for the Snitch. Looking for_ the Snitch. _Somehow it was a lot easier said than done, when his mind seemed more interested in looking at _Harry._ Draco saw Harry hovering a few hundred feet away from him, intently scanning the skies, perfectly centred on the task at hand. Easy for him. So very easy.  
  
Harry cast a furtive glance at Draco, who was lingering a distance away. He had been surreptitiously watching Draco for the most part of the match so far— from the looks of it, Draco was getting steadily more distracted, less composed, less focused on the game instead of… something else. And twice Draco almost collided with another player, simply because he hadn't been watching where he was flying. To Harry, it seemed more as if Draco was just trying to _look_ like he was searching for the Snitch, than actually like he was really trying to catch it.   
  
Harry was concerned. It was emotionally draining to have to keep up façades like that— Harry knew it only too well. Harry remembered all those nights he had curled up in his little cupboard back in Privet Drive, his face wet with silent tears, his mind awake with wistful dreams, and he knew how hard it had been to dry his eyes and pretend everything was fine when the morning came so that they wouldn't know he had been sleepless and so very miserable.  
  
Harry was on the verge of flying over to ask Draco if he was all right, when suddenly he saw Draco's broom lurch into a sharp dive— for the fleeting heartbeat of a moment Harry thought that Draco had lost control of his broom, or had fainted, but before he could recover from his initial surprise he saw the shimmer of silver-gold fluttering near the ground, by the Slytherin goal-posts. And Draco was racing toward it, even as Seamus shouted, "The Snitch! The Snitch has been sighted!"  
  
Harry recovered from his shock quickly, and tore after Malfoy, pushing his Firebolt as fast as it could possibly go. Malfoy had quite a sizeable head start already, and Harry's heart sank even as he leaned forward on his broom, aligning his own body parallel against the handle to reduce air resistance. The passing wind hissed in his ear like a crackling flame establishing itself, and he hurtled after Malfoy, steadily gaining ground— now he was inches away from the tail of Malfoy's Nimbus, but it was no good, Draco was already closing in on the Snitch—  
  
All of a sudden, out of nowhere a Bludger burst onto the scene, like a black fist hitting through the air. With considerable force it struck the tail of Draco's broom, disrupting its delicate balance in mid-flight and sending Draco's Nimbus spinning out of control. Harry hastily swerved away to dodge the ricocheting Bludger and avoid colliding with Malfoy— Harry took his eyes off the Snitch for that split-second just to steady himself, and when he looked again it had vanished. Harry cursed inwardly, utterly frustrated.  
  
On the other hand, Draco struggled to regain control of his broom, alarmed as it launched into a dangerous dip— he seized the handle and yanked it upward, forcing the broom into a steep climb so as not to brush against the ground and wreck the flailing balance any further. He managed to manoeuvre it away from a likely nose-down crash and returned to a safe altitude, his Nimbus slightly wounded by the assault of the Bludger. Draco turned around to assess the damage— not severe, although a few twigs had been ruffled out of place. He swore heatedly, dimly aware of the ripple of excitement rising from the crowd in the stands.  
  
Truthfully, Draco hadn't expected to detect the Snitch so soon. He hadn't even been _looking_ for it— noticing it hovering above the ground next to the Slytherin goal-posts while he had been briefly assessing the performance of their Keeper had been just a stroke of luck. Even in his distracted frame of mind, Draco had reflexively gone after it, based on the pure instinct of any Seeker. Part of him had been relieved, really, even as he had chased down the pitch toward the tiny fluttering Snitch, because if he caught the Snitch the game would _end_, and the insidious torment of flying alongside Harry would be over. And that was all he wanted for now, even more than he desired the glory of winning the game or the prospect of getting a new broom from his father as a reward. Damn that bloody Bludger.  
  
In the stands, Ron was bellowing and jumping up and down, which Hermione found decidedly distracting, although she was too engrossed in the game to tell him to calm down. There was a roar of anticipation from the spectators as Harry and Draco both raced after the Snitch, Draco in the lead but with Harry swiftly gaining on him— then the Bludger, expertly hit by the Gryffindor Beater, had scattered them both, and the Snitch in the process as well. Hermione found that her lower lip hurt from where she had been biting down on it, and she winced.  
  
To say that Ron was worked up would be a gross understatement— he was positively _livid._ "What the hell is wrong with Harry?" he yelled in utter despair. "Malfoy saw the Snitch first, can you believe it? For crying out loud he almost _caught_ it, did you see that? What is Harry _doing?_"  
  
"Maybe Harry didn't see it," Hermione said nervously, still chewing on her lip as she watched Malfoy and Harry rise to the skies again, where they could have an eagle eye view of the action.   
  
"Didn't see it?" Ron sputtered incredulously, waving his Omnioculars around in an exaggerated manner. "Harry _always_ manages to see it first, that's why he can go after it and win the game!" Ron raked a hand through his red hair, which matched the colour flushing his cheeks now. "What's the matter with Harry? He just isn't being attentive enough!"  
  
Hermione secretly agreed, although she had a far better idea than Ron did about exactly _why_ Harry wasn't being attentive enough. This was as she had predicted and feared— Harry, being overly fair and noble, would end up watching out for Malfoy more than he watched out for the Snitch, just so he could convince himself that Malfoy _was_ indeed managing all right, throwing away the victory in the process. Frustrated and helpless, all Hermione could do was watch and hope that Harry would come to his senses quickly and start to really _play the game_, the way he always did.  
  
As he looped back up to a decent altitude, Harry was furious with himself. He was angry that he had been so stupid to put his own personal matters ahead of the good of the team and Gryffindor's chances of victory, and that he had been foolish enough to worry that Malfoy might not be all right. He should have known— heck, he _did_ know— what a fiercely competitive person Malfoy was, and he should have guessed that being under a love potion would have no effect on the potency of Malfoy's threat on the Quidditch pitch.   
  
Harry shook his head, still disgusted with himself, and partly angry with Malfoy as well. He should have listened to Hermione; he recalled her anxious words to him outside the changing room, _Act as if nothing's happened between you and Malfoy... don't just throw away this match._ Harry couldn't help feeling that he had let her down somewhat.   
  
_Well, not anymore. _Harry gripped his broom determinedly, and arced in a reckless circle in mid-air, diving abruptly and speeding down the length of the pitch at breathtaking speed just to vent some of his own frustration. _Now I'm *really* going to play— and I'm going to *win* this match.  
_  
Draco reflexively jerked his head in Harry's direction when the other boy made a sudden dive, as if he had spotted the Snitch— he instinctively followed Harry, although with mere half-hearted resolve. A persistent headache was seeping into his skull, blunting his alertness; Draco suddenly felt very exhausted, as if the exertion of flying was draining him of his last shreds of energy. He knew his concentration was faltering— and as he lingered near Harry, he sensed something else, too.  
  
Harry was angry with him. Draco could sense it, radiating like heat waves of scarlet, crackling like a raving bonfire between them. It was a harsh, unyielding sort of sensation— it wasn't very intense, but it definitely could be felt, like underlying currents running through the invisible threads that bound them together. The sensation sent hot chills up Draco's spine— it was a pleasantly uncomfortable feeling, if there was ever such a thing; like butterflies and needles, roses and thorns.  
  
Of course, Draco knew why Harry was mad at him. Harry was angry that _he_ had gone after the Snitch first. Draco knew that their unsettled predicament had affected Harry as well, because in any other situation Harry would definitely have spotted the Snitch first, especially when it was in such an obvious location. And now in the furious backlash, Harry was really taking the game to Draco, twisting and weaving in between the other players and dodging the Bludgers with sharp precision, as if recklessly trying to throw Draco off his trail as he sought out the elusive Snitch once more. Draco could see that Harry was purposefully ignoring him.  
  
Faintly Draco could hear Seamus' excited commentary: "...and a heart-stopping moment when Slytherin's Seeker almost had the Snitch between his fingers, before a cleverly placed Bludger by Gryffindor's Beater thwarted the surprising attempt. Malfoy almost falls off his broom in the process— well, better luck next time, mate." Draco could hear the smirk in Seamus' voice. "We continue play, with everyone more than a little ruffled by the early Snitch sighting, a mere seven minutes into the game."  
  
Seven minutes? Draco could barely believe his ears. It felt more like seven hours. Surely it couldn't only have been seven _minutes._ He groaned inwardly as he followed Harry's zigzagging trail from a loose distance, moving more out of subconscious reflex than actual intention. _How long is this torture going to last? _  
  
The worst part was that Draco had no idea how long the match would last. This was the exciting, unknown element of a Quidditch match: the continual anticipation about the duration of it, whether it would end in the next second or last for the next fortnight. Either option was equally possible; literally, it could go on _forever._  
  
In this particular aspect, Draco realised, it was no different from the love potion. He had found himself plagued by this exact feeling of timeless dread in the past days and nights, like staring helplessly into the dark, fathomless column of a well that he'd dropped a necklace down; it was a dense darkness that extended forever, the shimmer of hope dim like watery light glinting off black water. Sinister. Fearful. _Endless._  
  
_Oh god, when will this ever end?_ Draco asked himself desperately; and he wasn't quite sure if he was only referring to this Quidditch match.   
  
Harry glanced around, keeping a keen eye out for Draco; unsurprisingly, he saw Draco fly toward him again. Harry noticed something strange, something _different_ about Malfoy's flying style today— he seemed almost _scared_, which Harry inferred from the way Draco clutched his broomstick so tightly with both hands as he wove between the other players in a careful, guarded manner. It seemed as if Draco was afraid that he was really going to fall off his broomstick.  
  
"Gryffindor lead Slytherin fifty points to forty," Seamus announced, bringing Harry's drifting thoughts back into focus on the game again. "Slytherin are giving away more penalties than they can afford— not that anyone's complaining— Slytherin's Keeper seems intent on committing every single foul in the book. Gryffindor have taken three penalties already, slotted away with no problem at all, and they're in possession now..."  
  
Draco turned away from the mellow glare of the sun and found himself looking in Harry's direction once more. The dull ache in Draco's head grew steadily worse, accelerated by the darkly heated vibes he was getting off Harry, and there seemed to be no way for Draco to insulate himself against that. It combined with the volatile potion in his veins like a crimson tide, rushing up the shores of his mind and obliterating coherent thought— Draco lost control momentarily, and that was all it took for his broom to spin off on a tangent—  
  
"And Slytherin's Keeper has committed yet another foul," Seamus was remarking dryly, "Now we can add 'poke the opposite team's Chaser hard in the stomach with your broomstick handle' to the list of professional fouls." While most of the players on the pitch were engaged in the furor at the Slytherin end of the field, Harry took the opportunity to scan the grounds for the Snitch— and then he saw it, hovering in mid-air near the Gryffindor goal-posts this time, like a golden snowflake illuminated by the pale sunlight. _The Snitch.  
_  
Harry froze for a moment, his heart leaping in exhilaration; then the shock melted away, and he rushed forward, putting on a spectacular burst of speed as he raced toward the Snitch, the brilliant, unmistakable sparkle against the backdrop of blue sky—  
  
—all of a sudden, Draco appeared out of nowhere in front of him, blocking his path and forcing him to twist sharply off-course, jerking away from a headlong crash at the very last instant.  
  
"Sod off, Malfoy!" Harry yelled angrily, as he wrenched his broom sideways, veering away from a collision just a second before impact; he had even felt the hem of Draco's robes graze against his arm as they passed. Harry took a moment to steady his broom and orientate himself back on track— he spun around to glare at Malfoy, but what he next saw made his eyes widen with dawning horror. "_Malfoy?_"  
  
Draco was dimly aware of Harry shouting at him, although he couldn't quite figure out what Harry was yelling— Draco's fingers released their hold on the handle of his broom, and his sense of balance vanished with a shrill siren of silence, and then, he was falling… he seemed to fall for an eternity, suspended in the air like a weightless feather— Draco shut his eyes and surrendered to the dark pulse that thrilled through his veins, before the ground finally struck him with a dull, sickening thud, and he was plunged into a chasm of empty nothingness.  
  
Harry watched in undisguised horror as Draco tumbled off his broomstick and fell to the ground, his body limp and seemingly lifeless, looking so painfully delicate and fragile— he glanced back over his shoulder, where the Golden Snitch was still fluttering enticingly, just a few feet above him— then Harry looked back at Draco, falling through the crisp air as if in slow-motion, and he didn't have to think twice.  
  
Harry pointed his broom downwards and tore after Draco's falling form— it was the same sort of nose-dive he had executed back in his first year, where he was racing with the force of gravity to save Neville's Remembrall. It was the same whistling exhilaration as he ripped through the tense atmosphere, dangerously and recklessly— but now, Draco hit the ground before Harry could draw level, and the dull impact of Draco's body on the ground jarred Harry equally much, like a jolt of reality.  
  
Draco had landed awkwardly, crashing straight into the hedge lining the far end of the Quidditch pitch, opposite from the spectator stands. The brittle, leaf-stripped branches crunched under the weight of Draco's unconscious body, the serrated ends of the brown twigs tearing through Draco's clothing, cutting deep, rough grazes on his flesh.  
  
In the stands, the students were in uproar, especially those who had seen the startling episode in mid-air, with the almost-caught Snitch and Malfoy's subsequent fall. And Ron, who had turned his attention briefly away from the dispute over the Gryffindor penalty, had seen all of it through his Omnioculars. So had Hermione.  
  
"Hermione!" Ron shouted, staring into the Omnioculars and simultaneously shaking Hermione's arm. "Oh my god! Was that the Snitch? — Harry and Malfoy just crashed, and Malfoy's fallen off his broom— Harry's going down too, oh no…"  
  
Hermione was too stunned to react, and she watched the scene unfold as if it was playing out in slow motion, like a surreal nightmare beyond her worst fears. She let out an involuntary gasp and clapped her hand over her mouth as Malfoy plummeted through the last twenty feet of air and crashed into the hedges— she squinted desperately, praying that Harry was all right. Had he and Malfoy crashed in mid-air? Or…  
  
"Is Harry hurt?" Ron hollered to make himself heard above the din; he anxiously peered through the Omnioculars, zooming in as much as he could. "Did he fall? — no, he seems to be conscious, he's all right I think—" Ron looked up, and glanced worriedly down the other end of the pitch. "Do the others know that Harry and Malfoy collided? Oh, Madam Hooch just saw, she's going over right now… my god, Hermione, did you see that? Malfoy could've killed Harry!"  
  
Harry landed on the ground just seconds after Draco did; he staggered slightly from the abrupt landing as he skidded to a halt, and he felt a pang of pain shoot through his right ankle. He ignored it as he hastily got off his broom and dropped to his knees next to Draco. Draco was lying on his side, facing away from Harry; as Harry turned Draco over, he let out a soft exclamation, and then swore— he'd expected bruises, yes, but he hadn't expected this.  
  
There was a deep gash across Draco's forehead, linear and running parallel to the neat arch of Draco's eyebrows. Blood was flowing freely forth, running in narrow crimsons streams down Draco's left temple, staining dark patches of maroon on his green Quidditch robes. Flecks of red clung to the tips of silvery-blond hair, which framed Draco's face, and his pale left cheek was stained with new grazes as well. It was like somewhat of a travesty of nature— blossoming fresh red mingled with cream-white skin, cut by rotting brown, dead twigs. It looked wrong, so very wrong.  
  
Suddenly, something occurred to Harry; without thinking, he automatically reached out his hand and laid it flat against Draco's bleeding forehead, without any hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and—  
  
—Nothing happened.  
  
Harry stared, disbelieving; he laid his hand against Draco's forehead for a few more long moments, but there was no shiver of healing beneath his fingers, like he had felt that night when Draco had slashed his own chest and placed Harry's hand to the seething knife-wound. Now, nothing happened, not a single thing.  
  
Harry brought his hand away from Draco's forehead, dazed; his hand was matted with blood, Draco's blood, wet and warm between his fingers with the pulse of life. _Draco's life._ Suddenly Harry was scared, alarmed by the sight of vivid red seeping between his parted, quivering fingers— the sight of his hand stained with blood. _Draco's blood._ A terrible thought suddenly occurred to Harry: how if Draco was dead?   
  
Harry reached over and took Draco's limp right hand, pulling it toward him; he ran his fingers over the tender pulse point on Draco's inner wrists, desperately feeling for the faint quiver of veins beneath skin—  
  
Suddenly, Draco's eyes fluttered open. Harry froze, his fingers rigidly gripping Draco's wrist. "_Malfoy?_"   
  
Draco's eyes were glazed and unseeing, the tarnished grey of his pupils hazed with stupor. Harry shook him gently, although with urgency and mounting desperation. "Draco? Can you hear me?" For the briefest of moments, Draco's eyes seemed to focus, and an expression akin to that of recognition flitted across Draco's face; then, his eyes closed with delicate weariness, and didn't open again.  
  
Harry nudged Draco once more, harder this time, but to no avail. Draco's eyelids remained closed and he was unresponsive. Harry turned around in wild helplessness, and yelled at the top of his voice, "Over here! Help! Malfoy's fallen off his broom!"_  
_  
Harry turned back to Draco. There were stray locks of hair tickling Draco's lashes, and Harry tried to push Draco's fringe away from the bleeding wound, rubbing off more blood on Draco's blond hair in the process, which was now like silver silk dyed with drops of red ink. Again, Harry tried not to dwell on how strangely unnatural that looked; even though the red and golden-blond stood out in stark complement, it still unsettled him immensely.  
  
A rustling flurry of broomsticks nearby alerted Harry that help had finally arrived— he looked up to find the other players running up to where he and Draco were, led by a very flustered Madam Hooch, who had waved over Madam Pomfrey, stationed by the sidelines on standby. Harry was incredibly relieved to see them, because he had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do next, or even how to stop the bleeding. Right now he had his right hand pressed over the cut on Draco's forehead to stem the flow; blood was still seeping in between his fingers, but at least it wasn't bleeding as profusely as before.  
  
"Potter! Are you all right?" The next thing Harry knew Madam Hooch was by his side, her face knitted with worry and instant alarm as she saw Draco's wound, ugly and seething and disfiguring on his pale face. But she quickly recovered from her shock, and her procedural reflex kicked in as she pulled Harry away from Draco, just as Madam Pomfrey arrived on the scene. "Potter, move back now— can you hear me clearly, Potter? Can you hear what I'm saying?"  
  
Harry wondered if Madam Hooch was vaguely mad, because he could hear perfectly clearly what she was saying and he reckoned that she should be seeing to _Draco_, not him. What Harry didn't know was that his forearms and face were smeared with fresh blood, and his hands _full_ of red stains, so from Madam Hooch's point of view, it seemed that Harry was likewise injured as Draco was, perhaps only slightly better off because he was conscious.  
  
"I'm all right, Madam Hooch— Malfoy's hurt—" Harry tried to say, amidst a barrage of questions that Madam Hooch was asking him; whether he could walk, whether his feet hurt, if his hands were numb… He finally gave up trying to talk, since she clearly wasn't listening to him, or rather, not giving him a chance to say anything more than a monosyllabic answer.   
  
Harry felt himself behind lifted to his feet, and behind him there was an excited assortment of voices, Madam Pomfrey's telling everyone to 'Calm down! Stand back!' being the loudest among them. Harry winced as he put his weight down on the foot that had been injured earlier when he had landed on the ground; Madam Hooch saw Harry flinch, and she helped him walk properly by supporting him along the way. Harry tried to turn around to see what was happening to Draco— he briefly saw a stretcher being conjured, but then a wave of vertigo suddenly overwhelmed him and he had to close his eyes. His foot was hurting more now, and he suddenly felt exhausted— his eyes seemed to sting, like needles under his eyelids... now, he was indistinctly aware that Madam Hooch had magicked a stretcher and was helping him onto it.  
  
"The game has been unexpectedly stopped…" Harry heard Seamus' voice through the magical megaphone, booming loudly over the noise of the crowd. "It seems that Gryffindor and Slytherin have _both_ lost their Seekers, who were involved in a mid-air collision— Potter is being escorted off the pitch now, he's limping— Malfoy appears to be unconscious, he clearly came off the worse in the crash…"  
  
And those were the last few words Harry heard, before he was carried away from the pitch in the direction of the hospital wing; exhaustion chased away the tentative strands of coherent thought, and Harry was too dazed to answer the single question foremost in his mind: _What the hell just happened?_   
  
  
  
~~~  
  
No points for guessing that the love potion had something to do with all this. But how, exactly? And Harry's healing powers didn't work on Draco— what does that mean? How do Harry and Draco each deal with the aftermath of the incident? All these questions answered in Chapter 9, with more twists in the tale in store. Ron sure is being adorably ignorant about this whole thing, isn't he? g   
  
  
^ ^ ^ ^ ^   
  
Thanks to Minx, Heidi and Celeste for priceless beta-reading help.  
  
Got more than a dozen replies for the source of the quote at the start of Chapter 7, but Karina snags the bar of Honeydukes chocolate for being the first one to guess correctly. :) I've decided to run that little sorting function on the program and have the thanks section arranged alphabetically instead, so here's a shout of gratitude to the reviewers:  
  
  
A'jes' Blue (_great review, loved it. Ron's being so cutely clueless, isn't he?_), A. L. Milton (_arch commentator and fabulous reviewer. Hope to hear more thoughts when you've read more!_), adeline, Allie, Alyeskakc, Amarissia (_thanks for your compliments!_), Amethyst (_more of Draco's ring in time to come, no worries *g*_), Amy Z, another rowan, Artemis, Astrid , Aura*Potter, Avocado, Ayanami R. (_great long review! And the handcuff makes its appearance again, and not for the last time either_), Ayla Pascal   
  
Banance, Bec, Becca, Becks, beckytiger, Black Goddess, Blackfire, Bookworm, Bri, Cat Samwise, CatFish (_Wow *g* glad you're loving it so far!_), ChiTas no Miko, chloe kuypers, Clara (_D/H is always the best_), cornish pixie, Dark Cyradis, delentye (_more handcuffs, as promised_), DevilChild, Draco Skywalker, Dreamer, DreamSpinner (_thanks for the reviews, Parker_), Echo, ema lee, Emily (_happy endings? but of course *g* have fun ruling draconian_), FifthHeir, fire goddess, Firebolt909 (_no H/H, don't worry!_), Fleur   
  
Genevieve Pratt (_thanks for the emailed review, brilliant as always), _Goddess Shinigami (_glad you've liked the story so far!_), Gwendolyn Grace (_insightful review as usual. Hope you enjoyed the Quidditch match *g*_), Hermione, IckleRonniekins, J. L. Matthews (_nope, no D/Hr! thanks for the review_), Jedi Boadicea (_you win Best Review Award *g* I'm speechless. Thank you_), Jewel, Julietz Star Gazer, Just Silver, Kappy, Karina (_you take care *g*_), karina305, KC buffipie, Kei (_now you owe me an ice-cream treat! Ha!_), Keieru (_still LOL-ng over your H/L fic review. will get back to you on Filios arc shortly!_), KMS  
  
L.C. (_Ron? oh, Ron *will* have his moment of glory_), Laura (_promise, snogs *will* come!_), lee-anne, Lelio, Lindsay Beth (_Ruler of Angst? I can live with that *g*_) little hecate, Liza Werewolf, Luckfire (_as usual, I love your long reviews. keep writing them *g*_), M skita84, Magic, magma, Marduk4, Marguerite, Mari, mathieu-russell, Melissa (_happy to know you've been looking forward to IP8!), _Merry, Moriel (_more unstable!Draco to come, the poor lad!_), mu'onna, Myst, Nadia, nikalee, Otaku_Neev   
  
Padfoot Lover, Pepsi, PEZ, plumeria (_full-fledged HP slasher now *g*_), Portia, princess_katrina (_very perceptive, noticing the change from Harry calling him 'Malfoy' to 'Draco'. Good job!_), purpleatheist, Pylite (_yay! another HP slash convert *g*_), rinoastar, Roarke, Rosmerta (_glad you liked the humor and imagery. Tis my speciality *g*_), Ruka-chan, Samantha K., Sarah, Sharon M., Shizuka Murasaki, SilverEyes, Silverfox, Sofie 'Armelle' Werkers, starling (_great to hear from you, girl!_), Starshadow, suicidalrainbow!, Sunny, Syl   
  
Tani, Tessie, The Destructive Blossom (_email to let me know what you're archiving on your site..._), Treemonisha, The Water Warrior (_thanks, I'm particular about typos too. Hope you enjoyed this chapter_), Viola (_no suicidal!Draco anytime soon, spoils the fun. Thanks for reviewing!_), Warui Nekochan!, Willow Moon ,Wingedkeys (_double review! thanks_), wings (g_lad you liked the characterisations_), Wyn, Wyvern, yuubou, zuzanny...   
  
...thanks for reviewing!   
  
  
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	9. The Edge of Reason

Irresistible Poison, Chapter 9: The Edge of Reason, by Rhysenn

  
Author's Note:   
  
Firstly, all future chapters of IP will be posted to the [cassie_and_rhysenn list][1] and [FictionAlley][2] FIRST, so if you want it hot off the press, you can find it either on the C&R list or even receive an email notification from the [IP review][3] board. I will post here on ff.net with a time lag of 48 hours to a week, depending on the situation.   
  
This chapter is dedicated to the regulars on the cassie_and_rhysenn list. You folks are the best cure for writer's block if there ever was one— always forthcoming with great reviews, cookie responses, wild IP speculations, IP anthems ("Just Snog Already!" the official IP motto), favourite IP quotes... thanks for being so supportive, it does mean a lot.   
  
Thanks to Minx, Heidi and Celeste for beta reading, and doing a great job at it on such short notice!   
  
--------------------------  
  
  
  
  
**Irresistible Poison**  
Chapter 9: The Edge of Reason  
  
  
_But love can hope where reason would despair._  
  
  
Ironically enough, it was the soft sound of a door clicking shut that sent Draco's mind back into the realm of consciousness; the oblivion of darkness scattered as rays of wakefulness streamed back like silver light behind his closed lids. A dull pain in his temples was all that remained of the sharp agony he remembered just before everything had gone black— and Draco could still feel the memory of falling, plunging through an endless expanse, gripped by nothing but fear...  
  
A quiet rustle jolted him out of the chilling memory and back into reality. There was someone in the room with him. Draco kept his eyes closed, not moving a muscle, his ears keen as he heard soft footsteps pacing near him, drawing closer; footsteps echoing in the warmth of silence, weighted with careful confidence yet tentatively hesitant, and completely unmistakable.  
  
Harry's footsteps, of course.  
  
Draco didn't need to open his eyes to know that Harry was standing barely a few feet away from him. He could sense Harry's presence near him, could _feel_ the exciting tension that laced the air between them. It was an exhilaratingly painful sensation, one that made him feel like reaching over to touch Harry; at the same time it made him want to just fall back into the empty nothingness that he had emerged from, so that Harry would go away and not be there when he woke again.  
  
Even as his confused stupor faded, the fragile remembrance still clung to the fringes of his mind in a surreal vision of reality. Draco couldn't be sure that it wasn't just a figment of his delirious mind-moments, just before he had lost consciousness; but he remembered opening his eyes, and the first person he had seen was Harry. And Harry had been leaning over him, and holding his hand; he had seen Harry's lips move, whispering silent words, words that felt tender and pure and so comforting, words that said that everything would be all right.   
  
But he knew better, Draco thought bitterly. Everything would never be all right. It must have been a dream. Just another dream.  
  
The last vestiges of pain in his body ebbed away; Draco vaguely wondered how far he had fallen, and how badly he had been hurt. He would have very much liked to sit up and inspect his bruises, if not for the fact that he seemed frozen in a waking coma simply because Harry was standing next to him. Yes, Harry was standing right _next_ to him, somewhere directly to his left— he could feel it.   
  
Just then the door opened again, and Draco heard the sound of Madam Pomfrey bustling into the room, accompanied by the tinny clattering of a tray being set down on the bedside table, presumably carrying his medicine. Draco realised that he was feeling rather hungry.  
  
"Potter, you should be lying down," Draco heard Madam Pomfrey chiding, confirming what he had known all along. "I just fixed your ankle, and you shouldn't be walking all over the place..."  
  
"Is he all right?" Harry's voice spoke up quietly, underscored with concern. Draco's heart did a funny little skip— actually, it felt more like a feather being dropped in a vacuum. It was a dense fluttery feeling, which didn't feel very right but felt pleasant all the same.  
  
"He'll be fine," came Madam Pomfrey's curt reply, "no broken bones or cracked ribs, just a little shaken up. The fall looked a lot worse than it really was, frankly."  
  
"But he got badly scratched when he crashed into the bushes..." Harry's soft interjection was still doubtful, and quietly anxious.   
  
"I cleaned them up, most of them were just surface injuries." Madam Pomfrey sounded impatient, and she repeated, "He'll be fine, in fact he should be awake anytime now. The Nurture Spell has a mild tranquillising effect, but that should wear off soon. Nothing to worry about. Now I want you to go back outside, and sit down in the waiting room for another good fifteen minutes. If you feel well enough by then, you can go back to your dormitory. Now shoo, Potter, out with you."  
  
"Thanks," was the last thing Draco heard Harry say, and then the door closed, and he knew that Harry was gone. Trust Harry to be so polite even when having been told to go away.   
  
Draco kept his eyes closed and continued to pretend to be asleep as he mulled over what he'd just heard. The conversation cast some light on what had happened— apparently after he had fallen off his broom, which was the last thing _he_ could remember doing, he had crashed into the bushes and scratched himself quite badly. And Harry had come over to see if he was all right.   
  
Draco tilted his head back and bit on his lower lip. For some reason, that mattered much, much more than everything else he'd heard.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Madam Pomfrey had refused to let anyone who wasn't a blood-drenched Seeker into the hospital wing, so Harry was alone; he sat down on the sofa in the waiting area outside the room Draco was in. Technically, he mused wryly to himself, he didn't even qualify to be there, either, since he had been stained with Draco's blood and not his own.  
  
Madam Pomfrey had been so relieved that he wasn't badly injured that she hadn't even paused to question why he had emerged so unscathed from the alleged 'collision', while his counterpart had been knocked unconscious. Harry did sustain a swollen ankle, but that was about the extent of his injuries after he had cleaned off the smears of Draco's blood on his arms and hands. Harry suspected that quite a lot of blood had gotten onto his robes too, only that he hadn't been able to see the stains since his robes were scarlet to begin with.  
  
_At least he's all right._ Harry leaned onto the cushions, entwining his fingers behind his head and resting back against the palms of his hands. _He'll be fine. At least until he gets out of here. _  
  
Harry knew that Ron and Hermione would probably be outside waiting for him, but for some reason he didn't feel like seeing them right now, or the rest of his team for that matter. Spirals of confusion encircled the dazed, fragmented thoughts in his head as he replayed the Quidditch match over again in his head, for the millionth time...  
  
Draco almost catching the Snitch. Draco getting hit by the Bludger. Draco flying as if his mind was miles away, his movements slurred by such mechanical hesitance. And finally, Draco falling, and that terrible echo of solid silence as he hit the ground—  
  
"Harry."  
  
Harry snapped out of his sinister reverie, and he spun around, startled— and saw Hermione peering into the hospital wing, a look of frank worry on her face. She had opened the door so quietly that he hadn't noticed.   
  
The tightness on Harry's features relaxed slightly, although tension still frayed the edges of his voice.   
  
"Hi, Hermione," he said, shrugging off the memories of the Quidditch match until later.  
  
"Are you all right?" was the first question out of her mouth.  
  
"Yeah, I am," he said tiredly, offering her a small wan smile. "Pomfrey'll chase you off when she comes out of that room, but until then why don't you come in."  
  
Hermione cautiously eyed the closed door, which led to the room where Draco was resting, before sliding into the waiting room and shutting the door behind her. She crossed over to sit next to Harry, and her shoulder brushed against his in a gesture of silent comfort. She said nothing for a few moments, but finally spoke up when Harry remained silent as well.  
  
"How's Malfoy?" she asked quietly. Her voice shimmered with a reluctant concern, although it was undoubtedly genuine.  
  
"I don't know," Harry answered dully. "Madam Pomfrey says he'll live, so I reckon he will. But don't ask me what happened out there, because I haven't the faintest idea. Maybe Malfoy can enlighten us when he wakes up."  
  
"You mean you don't..." Hermione started.  
  
"No I don't." Harry said shortly. "I don't have a damn clue what happened out there just now, only that I was drenched in Draco's blood, and there was blood all over the place, and he wouldn't stop bleeding." He broke off, and shuddered. "It was horrible."  
  
"Everyone thinks you two collided," Hermione said, a careful tone in her voice.  
  
Harry sighed. "And what do _you_ think, Herm?"  
  
"I think there's more than what meets the eye," Hermione said neutrally, although a small shrug of her shoulders betrayed her perplexity. "I saw just what everyone else in the stands saw, Harry. But I know that little bit more about the— the situation with you and Malfoy, and that makes all the difference."  
  
"So you think the ghastly potion has something to do with it, too." Harry's voice was still wooden.  
  
Hermione sat back against the cushions of the sofa. "I've tried," she said simply. "I've tried to tell myself that we should take it at face value, that it was just an unfortunate collision, like everyone else thinks. Ron is downstairs having a quick word with the team— he's positively livid, he believes Malfoy tried to knock you off your broom in mid-flight. But... but I can't convince myself that's the truth. I just want to ask you first, what really happened."  
  
Harry shook his head slowly. "I can't tell you."  
  
Hermione bit her lip, and drew a sharp breath at the deeply shaken tone of Harry's voice.  
  
"I can't tell you because I don't know either," Harry continued, staring down at his palms; he stretched his hands out in front of him and turned them over. "I don't know how it happened, and I don't know _why._ I don't remember colliding with Malfoy's broom, but then again I may be wrong. Maybe our broom tails brushed, and some freak aerodynamic phenomenon sent his broom careening. _I don't know. _But what I do know is that—" Harry's voice faltered slightly, "is that it didn't work."  
  
Hermione's heart skipped a beat. "What didn't work?"  
  
"The healing," Harry said, slumping backwards with a defeated sigh. "Do you remember what I told you, about Malfoy taking that damn knife and slicing a gash down his chest? And when he took my hand and pressed it to his wound, it healed. Well, I tried that just now, on the pitch, when he was bleeding so badly I thought he'd just bleed to death if I didn't do anything. But it didn't work. Nothing happened. Nothing at all."  
  
"And what does that mean?" asked Hermione slowly.  
  
"That's a really good question," Harry answered softly.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
The atmosphere in the Gryffindor common room that evening was mixed— the official word from Madam Hooch had been issued during dinner, and it was decreed that the Slytherin-Gryffindor match earlier in the day would be counted abandoned due to the loss of both teams' Seekers (which would, theoretically, have meant the match would continue forever if not halted). The re-match would be scheduled for a later date, to be subsequently announced.  
  
The Slytherins, of course, had been highly pleased by this; the Gryffindors, however, were not, since they had been leading by a tidy margin before the accident. However, the Gryffindors all rallied nicely in support of Harry, and repeatedly told him that it wasn't his fault the match got cancelled in mid-game. Anyone taking a look at Harry's woebegone expression as he slumped in front of the fireplace would have understood why his teammates were trying their best to comfort him.  
  
"It really wasn't your fault, that git Malfoy wrecked it all," Ron was saying for the umpteenth time, and Harry really wished that he'd stop saying that.   
  
Seamus nodded in agreement. "Malfoy was just trying to get back at you for what happened earlier, when we almost unseated him with that Bludger— and it was obvious that you were about to catch the Snitch, and so he went for all or nothing and collided into you."  
  
Hermione frowned. "You actually saw the collision, Seamus?"  
  
Seamus turned to her quizzically. "What else do you think happened? They both decided to dismount in mid-air at the same time?"  
  
"But it was Malfoy who fell off first, and—" Hermione started to argue, but Harry spoke up firmly, cutting her off.  
  
"It was a collision, Herm." Harry shot her the briefest of meaningful glances, then continued, "I don't think either of us actually intended to crash, but we both did, and it's too bad, especially since Gryffindor was winning."  
  
"But that's all right, Harry," Ron said confidently, giving Harry a bright smile. "We'll steamroller them all over again in the re-match. Look on the bright side— we'll get to kick their butts twice in the same season. And hopefully Malfoy will be too injured to play Quidditch for, oh I don't know, forever."  
  
"Ron," Hermione said sharply, although she was still watching Harry carefully.  
  
"Does anyone know what happened to Malfoy?" Harry asked casually, although Hermione saw the glint in his eye and noticed the swiftness of his question in response to Draco's name being mentioned.   
  
"I heard he's in a coma," said Ron hopefully. "Weren't you in the hospital wing with him, Harry? You could've switched his medicine, or something."  
  
"Yeah, especially with those Bogus Pills from Fred and George's Wizard Wheezes," Dean chimed in, chortling. "Malfoy won't exactly be Sleeping Beauty when he wakes up."  
  
"Yes, and Madam Pomfrey will have _such_ a hard time figuring out who to throttle for that," Harry answered dryly.   
  
Hermione sat quietly and watched the boys animatedly dissect the day's game before it was stopped, as well as discuss strategy for the re-match. She noticed that Harry wasn't participating as much as he should be, which was odd, especially since they were brainstorming about his favourite topic. He looked distracted, and except for the occasional nod and short remark, he appeared as if his mind was a thousand miles away...   
  
Or maybe not so far away— just down the corridor, first winding staircase on the right, two floors below. The hospital wing.  
  
Hermione got to her feet and gathered her books without saying a word, making as little noise as possible. But Harry, perceptive and observant as he always was, noticed that she was leaving, and raised an eyebrow questioningly.   
  
She shot him a significant look, and nodded once; he held her gaze for a few moments, and even if he didn't understand what she had meant, his eyes were still filled with unconditional trust. Trust that she knew what she was doing, and that even though he didn't know what she had in mind, he knew that she would do what was best.  
  
Hermione was already halfway out of the portrait hole when Ron called after her, "Hey! Where are you going?"  
  
"To the library," she tossed over her shoulder, "I need to check up on a book before closing time."  
  
Without waiting for a response from them, she slipped through the portrait hole and was gone. Once outside, Hermione checked her watch— it was just after eight, and hopefully most of the students would be back in their common rooms by now. She walked along the torch-lit corridor, took a turn off down the first winding staircase on her right, and headed for the hospital wing.  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Draco swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched, wiggling his toes and staring at them as if they held all the secrets of the universe. The numbness in his body was almost gone, replaced by a vague, familiar sense of unease, like the tremors of an earthquake before it broke to the surface; dense, solid and extremely unsettling.  
  
It had been barely ten hours since he'd arrived in the hospital wing and he was already bored out of his mind. A few of his Slytherin friends had come to see him earlier— Vincent and Gregory of course, as well as Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson, who had fawned and cooed over him as if he was an injured baby bird.   
  
But all he could care about was that Harry had come in to see him.  
  
_Is he all right?  
_  
Harry's voice had been filled with such depth of genuine worry that Draco could almost have sworn that Harry _did_ care about him, after all. Almost. But then he had walked out, and Draco hadn't seen him since. It was absurd, even expecting that Harry would come back to see him. Why would he do that?  
  
Because he was Harry. If there was anything that Draco had learned in the past few weeks, besides the supreme torture of wanting to sink to his knees each time Harry walked by, it was that Harry possessed a certain nobility that was beyond anything that he had expected. Even though _nobility_ was just a farce, a charitable shadow of love, it was still something special nonetheless. And some irrational part of him had spent the day hoping each time the door opened that Harry would walk in again, that Harry would come over and say something, anything at all, and make everything feel all right, just for that little while.  
  
But Harry never did come back.  
  
"Still got ten toes there, or only missing a couple?"  
  
Draco looked up, and saw Hermione standing in the doorway, an inscrutable expression on her face. Either he had been so deep in Harry-thought that he hadn't heard her opening the door, or she had entered so silently that it was like some bizarre new form of Apparition.  
  
"Aren't visiting hours over?" Draco said irritably; he set both his feet firmly on the floor, although he didn't get up.  
  
"They are." Hermione walked over to stand at the foot of Draco's bed, and crossed her arms. "But I told Madam Pomfrey that I was just delivering you a message, so she said I could come through."  
  
"A message?" Draco's heart leapt, and did a funny little ricochet within his ribcage; the gloom inside him changed into a glimmer of hopefulness. "From— from who?"  
  
"No one," Hermione said nonchalantly. "I just needed a reason to get in here, that's all."  
  
Much to Hermione's surprise, Draco actually looked crestfallen for the briefest of instants, before the disappointment quickly dissolved into indifference once again. But she had noticed it, all the same.  
  
"How are you feeling?" she asked, somewhat grudgingly.   
  
"Just spiffing," Draco replied, "it's invigorating to free-fall twenty feet off a broomstick every once in a while. Next time I'll just have to try a cliff."  
  
"Nice theatrical show you put up today," Hermione remarked crisply. "Very sensational and all. So, what really happened?"  
  
Draco snorted. "Theatrical, Granger? If I'd wanted theatrical, I'd have streaked naked through the Great Hall, or go-go danced on the Potions classroom tabletop. I would have made Longbottom turn into a pink flamingo and dance the flamenco. I would not, however, have kamikaze-crashed my broom and almost killed myself in the process."  
  
"Pity about the 'almost' bit." Hermione's mouth quirked in a suppressed smile. "And you do have a thing about dancing, don't you?"  
  
"I hate dancing." Draco made a face. "Everyone knows that."  
  
"Well, it figures." Hermione paused. "Anyway, you still haven't answered my question— what exactly happened up there? What did you do?"  
  
"Did you have your face buried in a book during the match, Granger?" Draco shot Hermione a look that was pointed enough to carve ice with. "I fell off my broom and almost broke my neck, haemorrhaged from multiple injuries, and then mercifully passed out. But I heard that Potter came cluttering down as well, so I'm sure he's furnished you with a frame-by-frame account of the gory details."  
  
"Everyone thinks you and Harry collided in mid-air," Hermione fixed Draco with a level gaze. "Was that what happened?"  
  
"What does Harry say?" Draco asked immediately.  
  
Hermione sighed. "He's not sure. He doesn't remember a collision. He reckons the tails of both your brooms could've entangled, and it was just a freak accident. Although," she added, "there are a fair few of the mind that you deliberately zoomed into Harry so the match would be halted and re-played at a later date."  
  
Draco let out a scornful laugh. "Since when, Granger, do you know me as such a self-sacrificing person?"  
  
"I do know that you'd do anything for glory," Hermione replied, without a trace of a smile, "and that beating Harry at Quidditch is something you've wanted for a long time."  
  
Draco's eyes narrowed. "So you think I crashed into Harry on purpose, too."  
  
"No," said Hermione diplomatically, "I don't think that. I know what I saw, Malfoy, and I also know that what happened goes deeper than just a case of bad timing. And I want to hear how it happened straight from you, and more importantly, _why_ it happened."  
  
"_Why_ it happened?" Draco gave a bitter, humourless smile. "Isn't it fairly obvious, or did you take a Bludger to your head?"  
  
"I know it has something to do with the love potion," Hermione said impatiently, "but as far as I know love potions don't bring on bouts of sudden unconsciousness, or induce mid-air collisions."  
  
"You don't know anything, Granger." Draco replied calmly, his grey eyes hard and filled with tense emotion like shimmering pearl. "I can tell you the first thing to know about love potions, and it's that they impair judgement. In every aspect of your life, every time a certain someone is around."   
  
"I know that—" Hermione began, but he cut her off.  
  
"When I see him, it feels like everything around me shatters and heals in a single moment, and when I look at him the background just fades to a shifting blur." Draco spoke in a colourless monotone, as if speaking about a distant life far removed from his own; the words seemed to tumble from his lips out of their own volition, like a repressed tide rushing up to shore.   
  
Draco didn't know why he was confiding this in Hermione Granger, but he knew that if he didn't tell someone, he might just explode. "Do you know how much time I've spent watching him, over these past couple of weeks? Let me just tell you, a _lot._ I don't think I'm exaggerating if I say that in some ways, I know Harry better than any of you do. For instance, which hand does Harry use to push his hair out of his eyes?"  
  
"Um," Hermione said uncertainly, looking thrown, "his left?"  
  
"Always his right. And do you know that he likes to walk with his hands in his pockets, unless he's carrying books, in which case he always carries them on his left hand because his right is his wand hand? Do you know what is always the first thing he takes out of his bag when he sits down at his table in class?"  
  
"His parchment?" Hermione suggested, realising that she hadn't a clue. "Or his quill?"  
  
"No. His bottle of black ink." Draco gave her a serene, mildly smug smile. "Isn't it surprising how much you actually don't know about someone you thought you knew so well?"  
  
Hermione, for once, couldn't think of anything to say in reply to that.   
  
"Well," Draco continued in a low, measured voice, "I guess I've been noticing so much about how Harry behaves because the potion makes me particularly sensitive to his feelings, and his reactions to me. I'd be able to tell when Harry's looking in my direction, without even glancing up. And this— this destructive connection, it doesn't get better with time, you know. It only gets worse. Which was why— during the match..." he trailed off.  
  
"What?" Hermione sounded almost breathless. "What do you mean?"  
  
Draco bit his lip, and looked away. "The whole atmosphere this morning was more tense than usual— emotions were heightened by the excitement of the Quidditch match. I could plainly tell when Harry was angry, and his rage disrupted the precarious balance of the entire dynamic between us. It was—" he broke off, casting for words, "it was like drowning, where all you see when your head breaks the water surface is a crimson sky, and all you see when you're dunked under is a sea of blackness. I guess it was more than I could take, at that very instant, and I blacked out."  
  
Hermione was staring at him, open-mouthed. "_Harry_ made you fall? Why— why was he mad at you in the first place?"  
  
"Because I almost caught the Snitch," Draco said, without missing a beat. "I wasn't the only fiercely competitive Seeker on the pitch today, you know. Especially since Harry has never known the opposite of victory. He was playing to win, love potion or not."  
  
"Harry couldn't have been _that_ angry at you," Hermione protested, albeit weakly. "He was watching out for you, throughout the game— he was genuinely very worried that with the complications of the love potion, you wouldn't be able to last the entire match."  
  
"And right he was," Draco said, cynicism lining his voice. "Believe me, Granger, he _was_ angry at me. He was positively furious. I could _feel_ it— perhaps too much— and I couldn't repel it or handle so much raw emotion all at once, and that's why I passed out."  
  
Draco sat back on the bed, leaning against the headboard as he stared off in the distance, immersing himself in the torrid recollection of that moment which splintered and burned like nothing he had ever experienced before. It had been a wave of crashing scarlet, pure red without the slightest shadow of black or dilution of white— the colour of anger, the colour of pain, the colour of passion, the colour of love.  
  
Love, which was a summation of all these, and everything more.  
  
Draco forced himself to stop dwelling on the scorching memories; he looked back at Hermione. "So, now you know why."  
  
"Harry hasn't got the faintest idea of this, you know," Hermione said, a grave frown knitting her eyebrows.  
  
Draco gave a wry shrug. "Sometimes it's easy not to notice other people's feelings."  
  
"Harry's not like that," Hermione insisted, automatically leaping to her friend's defence.  
  
Draco held her gaze unflinchingly. "I know."  
  
They sat quietly for a few long moments, sharing a troubled silence. Finally, Hermione spoke up.   
  
"What are we going to do now?" She sounded anxious and unhappy.   
  
"Maybe there's nothing left to do," Draco said softly, and the unspoken tone of defeat in his voice was overwhelming. He raised his eyes to Hermione's. "So, did Harry ask you to come here?"  
  
Hermione shook her head. "No. I wanted to come and talk to you myself. Harry— well, he's still rather shaken up by the whole thing, and I thought it'd be best to leave him be for a while before thinking of what to do next."  
  
Draco looked away, letting his gaze fall on the white floor tiles, so clinically clean and well scrubbed. "He came in to see me today."  
  
Hermione didn't seem surprised. "He's been worried about you. He's been worried if you'll be all right, and he—" she was about to tell Draco about the failed healing attempt on the pitch, but decided against it at the very last moment, "he was the first person by your side right after you fell off your broom. And right now he's so confused about what happened up there— he doesn't know why or how, and he definitely hasn't a clue that he was the cause of it."  
  
"Are you going to tell him?" Draco asked, a flicker of obscure light sparking in his eyes at the mention of Harry's name once again.  
  
"Do you want me to?"  
  
"I don't know." Draco said offhandedly, although tension was evident in the tightness of his shrug. "It's up to you."  
  
"Don't give me that!" Hermione looked annoyed, and gave Draco a stern look. "You jolly well make up your mind if you want me to tell Harry or not. You aren't going to shirk that decision onto me."  
  
"Do you think that he'd be better off knowing?"   
  
Hermione considered for a moment. "I don't know," she finally said truthfully.  
  
"Then do what you think is best."   
  
Draco leaned over and poured himself a glass of water from the jug by his bedside, then took a sip. He stared into the water, as the rays of amber light glanced off the liquid colourlessness of it, catching spectrums of rainbow as they were dispersed through the pure transparency of water and glass. He swirled the water listlessly, creating a miniature whirlpool in his glass, which immediately dissolved when he stopped the movement.  
  
"We are so damn trusting nowadays," Draco said aloud, talking down to his drink. "We just take everything for granted, and don't even think twice about how one small twist in events can alter our entire lives. I don't mean that we don't _care_ about what happens to us— I mean that we _assume_ too much to care enough. Take this glass of water, for instance," he raised the glass in his hand, as if offering a toast, "I'll just drink it when I'm thirsty. I'd never even think to suspect that it could be poisoned, and that this might be the last sip of anything I ever take."  
  
Hermione gave Draco a quizzical look. "And why would the water be poisoned? Because Madam Pomfrey thinks a nil fatality rate among her patients doesn't look good on her record?"  
  
"Don't be obtuse, Granger, it's just an analogy." Draco gave her a withering look, then went back to gazing morosely down at his glass of suspect water, from which he took another sip. "Anyway, even if it's drugged, it can't be any worse than the state I'm already in— the love potion is magical poison, running in every drop of my blood. And it won't kill me," he let out a short bitter laugh, "at least not yet. And definitely not quickly."  
  
"There must be a way to counteract the love potion," said Hermione stoutly, determination in her voice, "even if a direct counterspell doesn't exist, there must be a loophole somehow."  
  
"Loophole?" Draco eyed her incredulously. "What do you think this is, Hermione? A rule that we're trying to evade? Love plays by no rules, and this isn't a game to start off with. It's a mistake, and some mistakes can never, ever be rectified."   
  
"So you're just going to live with it?" Hermione goggled at him in disbelief. "You're just going to accept this as a _mistake_, as if that's going to help anything now? What about Harry?"  
  
"Harry, for your information, isn't the one who's going to lose his sanity under the prolonged influence of the love potion," Draco said through gritted teeth. "Harry, incidentally, can actually just get on with his life, bearing no scars of the potion, and he can just walk away and go back to being normal."  
  
"No, he _can't,_" Hermione said hotly, glaring at Draco. "If you think that you're the only one affected by the love potion, you're wrong. Ever since you showed him the seriousness of the potion by cutting yourself and having him heal you, he's been worried about this whole mess like you would never imagine. He's hiding things from Ron just to protect this horrid secret. He's cutting class and sneaking around just to talk to you. And I've never seen him play so badly at Quidditch in all his seven years. So stop behaving like you're some martyred saint, and use your time more productively to think of a solution to this, because I _know_ there's a way out somehow."  
  
"You know, you sound like bloody Mathilda Miggs, the Mad Muggle's Mum." Draco sounded mildly disgusted. "Just listen to yourself: 'I know there's a way out somehow!' Please, spare me the bright-eyed idealism."  
  
"Oh stop being such a prat, will you?" Hermione snapped.   
  
"Look," Draco slumped backwards onto his pillow. "I think 'I've had a rough day' is a huge understatement. So maybe I'll go with 'It's the concussion talking'. Either way, I'm not in the most optimistic of moods right now, and this conversation isn't making me feel much better."   
  
Draco closed his eyes, and for an odd instant Hermione was struck with how vulnerable and fragile he looked, framed with an air of tired innocence.   
  
"I've been wondering," she said slowly, "if a Memory Charm might work. To make you forget that you're under the influence of the potion altogether, and perhaps even wipe out the whole memory of drinking the potion in the first place."  
  
Draco shook his head. "Won't work. Memory Charms are inferior in power to the Imperius Curse, and even Imperius doesn't work at all while the love potion is in effect. You see—"he took a deep breath, and there was a quaver in his voice, "Memory Charms and Imperius, they mess with your mind. Love potions mess with your heart."  
  
Hermione looked at Draco, and for the first time in her life saw the sheer helplessness and confusion in his eyes, brutally truthful; and she saw that beneath the veneer of arrogance and apathy, he was actually scared, because he had no idea what to do next. Lack of control in a situation was apparently not something he'd been taught to handle, not in the Malfoy household.  
  
She heaved a deep sigh. "You really should get some rest." She turned to leave.  
  
"I need to talk to Harry." Draco said, his voice sounding more than a little constricted.  
  
Hermione glanced back. "When?" was all she said, and Draco was surprised; he'd half-expected her to ask what he wanted to talk to Harry about.  
  
"As soon as possible. Tomorrow night, nine o'clock. Same place, he knows where."  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, storage room on the fifth floor, Astronomy Tower." She paused. "You sure know how to pick a place to meet— you _do _know what most people who frequent the Astronomy Tower at night actually go there for, don't you?"  
  
Draco managed a grin. "Yeah, the point being that they'll all be too busy to notice us sneaking around."  
  
Hermione harrumphed. "As long as you two don't get influenced by the snog-happy couples there."  
  
Draco gave a hollow laugh. "Don't worry, Harry will make sure we stick to the agenda." He watched as Hermione reached for the doorknob, and then added softly, "Thanks for coming."  
  
Hermione stopped and gave him a sidelong look. "I'll tell Harry you said hi."  
  
"Just tell him to be there tomorrow night."  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
"So did you manage to talk to Malfoy last night?" was Harry's greeting to Hermione the next morning, as they left the common room to go to breakfast in the Great Hall.  
  
"Yes," Hermione replied succinctly, but said nothing more. In truth, she wasn't sure what else she wanted to tell Harry about their conversation.   
  
"And?" Harry pressed impatiently. "What did he say?"  
  
"He says that he wants to meet you tonight, in the storage room on the fifth floor." Hermione glanced furtively around to make sure Ron wasn't listening in; Ron was a short distance away, asking Seamus about the other houses' match fixtures and hypothesising the likely table standings.   
  
"Tonight?" Harry frowned. "Whatever for? What does he want to talk about?"  
  
"I don't know," Hermione answered honestly, "he didn't say. But he seemed like he really wanted to talk to you."  
  
"Did he know what happened up there yesterday?" Harry persisted. "Why he fell? Why I couldn't heal him?"  
  
"I didn't tell him about your trying to heal him, he seemed troubled enough as it was." Hermione shot Harry a sideways look. "What about yesterday night— what you said in the common room? Did you suddenly remember that it had been a collision after all, or was it so that Ron and the rest wouldn't suspect otherwise?"  
  
"They all think we collided, and I think it's the best version for us to stick to," Harry answered slowly. "So what did Malfoy say?"  
  
"Malfoy reckons he'll be discharged from the hospital wing today, and so—" Hermione started, before Harry gently touched her shoulder and pulled her aside, slowing their pace.   
  
"Hey," he looked straight at her, and his eyes were filled with earnest anxiety. "Look Herm, you're avoiding my question, and I can see that. Is there something that I should know about what happened up there yesterday? Please, Herm, tell me what he said."  
  
Hermione bit her lip. "It's kind of hard to say, Harry."  
  
Harry's expression hazed over with concern and unhappiness. "Did Malfoy ask you not to tell me?"   
  
"No," Hermione said, her dilemma showing on her face. "It's just that— oh, Harry, it's you."  
  
"It's me?" Harry blinked. "What...?"  
  
"You, Harry," said Hermione gravely, "_You_ happened yesterday. Malfoy fell because of you, and he's fallen for you, and..." she trailed off, and sighed heavily.  
  
Harry was staring at her, looking thunderstruck. "He fell... because of _me?_ So," he looked utterly confused, "what does that mean? That we actually did collide?"  
  
"_No,_" Hermione said, sounding agitated. "He says that you were mad at him, because he almost got to the Snitch earlier, and your anger was somehow magnified by the effect of the love potion. He could actually _feel_ your anger inside his head, Harry, and it got too much for him to take and he blacked out and fell off his broom."  
  
Harry was silent for a long moment; Hermione eyed him worriedly. "Look, Harry, it isn't your fault, what happened..."  
  
They reached the Great Hall, and had to stop talking for a moment while they found their places and entertained several random interruptions from a few of their classmates. Harry slid into the seat next to Hermione, and sat silently as the food was served on the tables.  
  
Hermione felt terrible seeing Harry so upset— she almost regretted telling him, although she knew that Harry deserved to know the whole truth since he was more intimately involved than even she was. But she had hesitated to tell him for this exact reason, because she knew that he would feel guilty, and blame himself for what happened to Draco.  
  
It was decidedly inconvenient that they were at breakfast now, since she couldn't even have a proper talk with Harry. Glancing at Harry again, she caught him looking across the room, and she felt a dull flutter inside her stomach as she saw where he was staring: at Draco's empty seat at the Slytherins' table.  
  
"Harry," she started to say, trying to think of something in comfort, but he curtly shook his head once, and signalled for her not to discuss it at the table.   
  
Unhappy about the glum start to the morning, Hermione started buttering her piece of toast. Nibbling on her bread, she thought about what Draco had said to her last night— his words had a weighty, sinister echo to them, words like poison and blood, and mistakes that couldn't be rectified. But she still held to her belief that they would find a way out. Somehow.  
  
And suddenly, as she raised her glass of pumpkin juice to her lips, the idea struck her out of the blue, as she stared at the silver serpent insignia emblazoned on the green banner hanging above the Slytherin table—  
  
Snakebites.  
  
Poison.   
  
In the blood.  
  
Antivenin.  
  
"Oh my god!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet in a rush. "I've got an idea!"  
  
Everyone turned to stare at her; Harry also glanced up at her, bewildered.  
  
Hermione grabbed her piece of toast and crammed it into her mouth, mumbled something of which only the word "library" was intelligible, and bolted out of the Great Hall.  
  
Seamus turned to watch her go, amusement on his face. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, that was the updated version of the 'Eureka!' episode. Hell of a lot less scandalous, though."  
  
  


* * * * * * *

  
  
Harry checked his watch for the third time in the past five minutes— it was quarter to nine, and he was sitting alone on his bed in the boys' dormitory. Ron and the others were in the common room, but he'd opted to stay upstairs for some peace and quiet. He knew that Hermione was in the library, where she'd spent most of her time in between classes during the day, researching on potions that worked the same way in which antivenins did on snakebite poison.  
  
It was a brilliant idea, Harry acknowledged; trust Hermione to come up with a clever plan like that. Apparently something Draco had said the day before had made her think of the love potion in terms of poison in the blood, which meant that an Anti-toxin potion should be able to purge the essence of the love potion. It was marvellously simple, and definitely worth a shot— he was supposed to brief Draco on this new idea when they met tonight.  
  
A thick dusty book entitled _Medical Magic_ sat on his bed— Hermione had given it to him to read, so as to familiarise himself with the basic concept of her plan. Harry flipped the book open to the last few pages, where the index listings in order of subject were. He easily located the entry on 'Anti-toxin potion', turned to the numbered page and started reading:  
  
_Anti-toxin potions are used to detoxify the patient's blood, which has been contaminated by poison, toxic chemicals or other alien substances, which may be fatal or cause medical complications. The Anti-toxin acts indiscriminately on all types of chemical substances, either consumed orally or intravenously introduced; as a result, all drugs will have to be subsequently re-administered once the Anti-toxin potion has been consumed. Most often used to nullify the effect of wrongly administered medication, the Anti-toxin potion works best on chemical substances immediately distinguishable in the bloodstream. The effect of the Anti-toxin potion is often discernable almost immediately, although it can take up to 24 hours to show results.  
_  
  
Harry stopped reading, and pondered for a moment. This Anti-toxin potion sounded like the perfect solution that they had been looking for. Of course, this book being a only a magical pharmaceutical reference, it didn't list the formula for the preparation of the Anti-toxin potion— that was what Hermione was hard at work in the library looking up.   
  
_Draco owes Herm big time,_ Harry thought to himself, as he checked the time again— it was ten to nine, and time for him to make his way downstairs.   
  
As he draped his black school robes over the back of a chair so that they wouldn't be creased, something slipped out of his pocket and fluttered to the floor. Bending to pick it up, Harry realised that it was the note that Draco had written him less than a week ago. It was hard to believe it had been only such a short time. Since then and now, it seemed like forever had passed, as if every single moment between them had been taken out of the flow of time and stretched, filled to the brim with a chockfull of confusing, conflicting emotions.  
  
Harry shook his head and tried to put the pervasive worries out of his mind— he slipped the note out of sight, and placed the book on his bedside table. Taking a deep calming breath, he exited the dormitory and made his way down the stairs, trying to appear as casual as he could. The other Gryffindors were sitting in the common room chatting and doing their homework, and Harry gave the excuse that he was going to see McGonagall about his Transfiguration term project before quickly ducking out of the common room.  
  
His legs moved almost mechanically, remembering the solitary way to the storage room in Astronomy Tower even though he'd only been there once before. Some things were harder to forget, especially when his memories of that storage room were of knives and blood and rings and Draco.  
  
He reached the storage room a minute before nine, and rapped on the door twice before cautiously opening it. As usual, Draco was already there, and this time he was sitting on the closed lid of a broad rosewood trunk parked at the far end of the storage room. Harry didn't remember seeing the trunk there before— maybe Filch had just brought it here, which wasn't a good thing since that meant this storage room wasn't as disused as they'd thought it was.  
  
Harry quietly closed the door behind him, and walked a few steps closer to where Draco was sitting. Draco watched him evenly, not taking his eyes off him; Harry finally drew to a halt a few feet away from Draco. He opened his mouth, then realised that he didn't know what he wanted to say.  
  
Draco finally spoke first. "How's your ankle?"  
  
Harry blinked. "How'd you know...?"  
  
"I heard," Draco answered offhandedly, slowly rising to his feet. He took one single step closer to Harry, never once breaking eye contact. "Quite a match it was yesterday, wasn't it."  
  
"You're fine now?" Harry asked, his voice edged with concern.   
  
His eyes flickered over Draco's body— the other boy was dressed simply in jeans and the Slytherin house T-shirt, which had the single Chinese character for 'snake' embossed across the front in bold, black calligraphy strokes. The exposed parts of Draco's arms bore almost no trace of his injuries sustained the day before, except for pale, light-pinkish hue of freshly healed skin; Harry glanced up at Draco's forehead, where a faint silver streak, like a trail of mercury, marked where Harry had tried to heal him, but had failed.  
  
Draco looked at Harry, remarkably calm. "Do I look fine to you?"  
  
"Um," Harry cast about for words, "well, you seem all right, I mean, your body looks good— wait, I didn't mean it that way— as in, you seem better, physically." He paused. "I don't know about how you feel otherwise."  
  
Draco tilted his head slightly. "Did Hermione tell you anything?"  
  
Harry bit his lip, and nodded silently.  
  
An obscure emotion flitted across Draco's face for a split-second, and he looked away. "So you know."  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"Everything?" Draco asked tentatively, and there was a faint quiver in his voice. "About what— _why_ it happened?"  
  
"Yes," Harry said softly. "She told me."  
  
A silence ensued— it wasn't an awkward or embarrassed silence, but a pensive one, borne on unspoken waves of helpless sadness. It was about the most intimate moment of non-physical contact that they'd ever shared— they were standing merely inches apart, and one step forward by either of them would swallow up the distance that lay between. But neither of them moved.  
  
"Listen," Harry finally said, with a heavy sigh. "Hermione thinks she knows how we can fix this— it's a pretty good idea, and maybe—"  
  
Draco suddenly let out a soft gasp and clutched his jeans. "Damn, my wand's vibrating."  
  
Harry took a step back, and gave Draco an alarmed look. "I really hope you're talking about your literal wand..."  
  
"There's someone coming!" Draco hissed, and swore creatively; he spun around and eyed the door behind them. "I think it's Filch. Dammit, we have to hide!"  
  
Harry stared at the closed door, bewildered. "I don't hear anything."  
  
Draco was looking wildly around the small room— he quickly strode over to the rosewood trunk and threw open the lid, revealing a fairly narrow hollow compartment within. His eyes lit up, and he turned to Harry. "Come on, we can hide in here."  
  
Harry eyed the trunk sceptically— he hated enclosed spaces because they brought back unpleasant childhood memories, and this rectangular trunk reminded him far too much of a coffin, for him to be comfortable climbing into it.   
  
"What is the matter with you, Malfoy?" Harry frowned. "I can't hear any footsteps, I think it's just people walking about upstairs."  
  
"_No,_" Draco said urgently, "someone is about to walk in that door and if we don't get out of sight now, we're in big trouble. Trust me, will you?"  
  
_Trust me._ For some reason, those two simple words struck a chord within Harry, because they articulated something he had already been doing all this while— trusting Draco. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to.   
  
"Oh, all right," Harry said reluctantly, crossing over to where Draco was standing by the open trunk.   
  
Draco looked relieved. "Okay, hurry up and get in. Now."  
  
"Are you crazy?" Harry turned to Draco incredulously. "And let you get in on top of me? No way."  
  
"Oh, fine!" Draco snapped, exasperated. "_I'll_ get in first, then."  
  
He quickly stepped into the trunk and sat down, stretching his legs out; he lay backwards, such that he was flat on the base. The interior of the trunk was more spacious that it looked, since Draco seemed to be able to fit inside without any difficulty.   
  
"What are you waiting for!" Draco hissed, glaring up at Harry. "Come on in! Someone's going to come in any moment now!"  
  
Harry muttered something under his breath that sounded like "This had better be good, Malfoy, or else", gingerly stepped into the trunk, and carefully lowered himself on top of Draco. Their bodies were perfectly aligned, from shoulders to ankles— once Harry had settled himself inside the trunk, Draco reached up and pulled the lid closed over them. It slammed shut with a soft thud, engulfing them in darkness.  
  
Harry blinked, his eyes trying to adjust to the pitch-blackness inside the trunk— he wasn't even sure if his eyes were open or closed, it was so dark that it made no difference. He braced his hands and knees on either side of Draco so that he wouldn't actually be lying _on_ Draco's body— but after less than a minute his arms began to tire, and he finally allowed himself to rest his weight on top of Draco. He could feel the warmth of Draco's chest pressed against his, Draco's heartbeat drumming in counterpoint to his own.   
  
The next thing they heard was the noisy creak of the doorknob being twisted, and the door opened, accompanied by familiar shuffling footsteps— unmistakably, Filch. He seemed to be huffing and panting, and there was the dull scrape of a sack being hauled over the floorboards. Filch's footsteps strayed dangerously near the trunk, and both Harry and Draco held their breath— but then the sound of his dragging feet grew distant again, terminating in the audible closing of the door.  
  
"Is he gone?" Harry asked very quietly. It was too dark to see anything— he was vaguely aware that his chin was resting against Draco's left shoulder; he felt a few strands of hair tickling his nose.  
  
"Wait," whispered Draco softly; from the direction of his voice, it seemed that his face was turned away from Harry's. "Just in case he comes back."  
  
They waited in silence for a few more minutes— Harry could feel Draco's breathing quicken imperceptibly as they lay there, pressed close together, in the complete darkness. The lid of the trunk was bearing down on his back, and Harry shifted uncomfortably— this trunk was definitely not designed for two. Draco's knee was nudging against his calf, and Harry tried to adjust himself into a less compromising position, but failed for lack of room for leverage.  
  
"I'm squashed," Harry complained irritably, fidgeting some more— his left leg was already going to sleep, and he realised that he had somehow managed to slip his right arm around Draco's waist. The fingers of his right hand were starting to feel cramped.  
  
"Potter," Draco said through clenched teeth, "Will you please stop moving so much?" He sounded slightly breathless. "You're, um, creating... unnecessary... friction."  
  
"What...? Oh!" Harry immediately froze in mid-movement, which was an even more uncomfortable position than before. "Oh! I'm sorry."   
  
A few moments of absolute stillness passed; the silence was awkward and embarrassed.  
  
"You can still breathe, you know," Draco finally said, in feeble jest.   
  
"Huh? Oh, that's all right." Even Harry's voice was coloured with discomfiture. "I'm quite fine like this, it's okay."  
  
Draco closed his eyes, and tried to immerse himself in the sheer darkness; anything to distract himself from how tantalisingly close Harry was, lying on top of him, and Harry's fidgeting just now had only served to rub him all the wrong ways, as it were. He could feel Harry's breath warm against his neck, blowing hot shivers down his spine— all he had to do was turn his head to face Harry, and they would be—  
  
"Um, am I crushing you?" Harry asked; Draco shivered as he felt Harry's lips brush against his earlobe as he spoke.  
  
"Yes, you are." Draco concentrated on stilling the involuntary quiver that ran through his entire body. Oh gods, this was more humiliating than he'd ever imagined— Harry could feel _everything_, every tremble and shiver of his body in response to their unbearably intimate proximity... it was mortifying.  
  
Harry shifted slightly again, and something which felt like cool metal slid out from the front of his shirt and made contact with Draco's skin— from the compact denseness and metallic weight, Draco immediately knew what it was. It was a ring, brushing against his bare throat, dangling from a chain that was linked around Harry's neck.   
  
Draco's heart skipped a few beats. Could it be...? Was Harry wearing _his_ ring around his neck?  
  
Resting on top of Draco, Harry was suddenly made very aware of something stiff nudging up against his thigh— something that pulsed rhythmically against him, and his eyes widened; he didn't even dare to wonder what it was, and he exhaled in a rush of breath, the involuntary words "Oh my god, Malfoy" leaving his lips in a shocked whisper...  
  
"Relax, Potter. That really _is_ my wand in my pocket," Draco informed him, and Harry could hear a secret smile in his voice. He felt Draco's fingers close lightly over his left wrist; there was surprising gentleness in this simple gesture, and Harry didn't even think to pull away.  
  
"I put a Surveillance Spell on this storage room," Draco continued to explain, in a low voice. "When anyone comes within a certain distance around this room, it'll trigger off an alarm, which causes my— _literal_— wand to vibrate to warn us." Draco parted his legs a little, and Harry's knee slid against his inner thigh. "That's how I knew Filch was coming over just now— and he's still lurking close by, because the wand is still vibrating, but it's getting fainter. When it stops we can get out of here."  
  
"Oh." Harry gave a relieved smile. "For a moment I thought—"  
  
"No, Potter, it wasn't because you're lying on top of me."  
  
"Right."   
  
"You know something?" Draco said softly; he turned his face toward Harry, and felt the tips of their noses brush lightly— it sent a tingling sensation through him, fluttering through his nerves. His fingers reflexively tightened their hold on Harry's wrist; they were so close now, and he couldn't help it, he just couldn't—  
  
Draco raised his head slightly and kissed Harry, letting his eyes fall closed as their lips met; and suddenly the swirling darkness felt like velvet perfection, and empty blackness became the colour of completion. His fingers released Harry's wrist, and moved to hold Harry's hand, their fingers entwining; everything else fell away like a collapsing dream, and all that mattered was what he had right now, what he held in his hand and what he tasted on the tip of his tongue, his mouth pressed against Harry's warm lips...  
  
"Malfoy." Harry spoke Draco's name softly, his lips moving against Draco's; he didn't turn away, but he didn't kiss him back, either.  
  
Draco forced himself to open his eyes; the bleakness of reality came streaming in once again, like black light in the glowing darkness. He let his head fall back against the base of the trunk, breaking the gentle kiss— he heard Harry say his name, but it wasn't the way he had imagined, those countless times in his dreams, where Harry had held him close and whispered his name: _Draco._  
  
"Malfoy, listen," Harry said again; his voice sounded odd, and strangely controlled. "Get a grip on yourself."  
  
Draco felt his face flush with heat. "I didn't mean to."  
  
"Never mind." Harry's voice was carefully veiled.   
  
They lay in silence for what seemed like another eternity; Draco withdrew his hand, his trembling fingers disentangling themselves from Harry's.  
  
Finally, when the vibration of his wand in his pocket had stilled, Draco spoke up, his voice still slightly shaky. "Okay, you can open the lid and get off me now."  
  
They managed to push the lid of the trunk open and clumsily crawled out. Harry grimaced as he stretched his cramped muscles, then turned back to help Draco. He offered his hand, and Draco took it; they spent a few moments massaging their numbed limbs back to life, and Harry gave Draco a reproachful look.  
  
"I'm never getting into a trunk with you again. I'm all stiff now."  
  
"Oh, _really?_" Draco arched an eyebrow, and smothered a laugh. "My, Potter, I didn't know you cared that much."  
  
Harry realised, turned red and looked extremely flustered. "I meant my arms and legs!"  
  
Draco grinned as he smoothed back his tousled hair. "Whatever." His smile faded as he glanced warily toward the door again. "We'd better get out of here, it seems like Filch is on one of his rare visits up here tonight. I've been in this room dozens of times before and he hardly ever comes to dump stuff here at night. I've only ever almost bumped into him once, and that's why I always cast the Surveillance Spell now whenever I'm up here."  
  
Harry looked impressed. "That Surveillance Spell is pretty neat."  
  
Draco gave him a sideways look, mingled amusement and superiority. "Just one of those nifty Spells That Give You An Upper Hand. It's right up there with your little handcuff spell."  
  
Harry blushed slightly, and couldn't think of anything in reply to that.  
  
Draco took a few steps closer to him, and gave him an appraising once-over. "Your shirt's all messed up around the back." He reached over and deftly straightened out Harry's collar. "There." But he didn't move away.  
  
Harry turned, and once again was face to face with Draco, standing far too close for comfort, yet it felt strangely right. Harry's expression sobered, and he gazed into Draco's eyes of stormy grey; they were the colour of a tempest building on the horizon, lined with troubled sadness overshadowing flickering hope.  
  
"Listen, Malfoy, I'm—" Harry began, but Draco touched a finger to Harry's lips, silencing him.  
  
"_Don't._" Draco's voice was twisted with anguish, and his eyes glistened with unshed emotion. "Don't say you're sorry, Potter."  
  
"I wasn't going to." Harry said deliberately, his lips brushing against Draco's finger as he spoke. "I wanted to say that, I'm going to check how Hermione's plan is coming along. Then I'll let you know."  
  
They shared an eternal gaze for the held breath of a moment— then Draco let his hand fall to his side, and he took a step back, the expression in his eyes shadowed and inscrutable.  
  
"You go on first," he said quietly. "I'll wait a few minutes after you, just in case Filch is on patrol."  
  
Harry nodded. "All right."  
  
Draco said nothing more as Harry quietly opened the door, and slipped out into the corridor— instead he just lowered his eyes and looked away, until he heard the door click shut. Then he buried his face in his hands and sank to the floor, utterly exhausted— exhausted from wanting Harry, from forcing himself to do absolutely nothing about it, and from having once again failed to hold back from kissing Harry.  
  
It was torture. Pure torture, and such fierce, helpless regret.  
  
_Don't. Don't say you're sorry, Potter.  
_  
Outside, Harry gently shut the door, but didn't take his hand off the doorknob; he leaned against the doorframe, shrouded by the hooded shadows woven with flickering torchlight.  
  
"And I'm sorry, too." Harry whispered softly into the closed darkness.   
  
  
  
~~~  
  


   [1]: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/cassie_and_rhysenn
   [2]: http://www.schnoogle.com/authorLinks/Rhysenn/Irresistible_Poison
   [3]: http://pub79.ezboard.com/fschnooglethebestofharrypotterfanfictionfrm7



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